


Where the Feigned Wind Falls

by IanRightsOnly



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bipolar Disorder, Canon-Typical Behavior, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 88,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25551013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanRightsOnly/pseuds/IanRightsOnly
Summary: An unexpected inheritance allows Ian to purchase a building in the heart of Chicago’s Wicker Park. He plans on turning the ground floor into a music lounge, but he’s not expecting his upstairs tenant to be Mickey; an irritable (and intriguing) tattoo artist struggling to get his business up and running.As they navigate through the frustrations of sharing a building, Mickey’s relentless ex begins hanging around in an attempt to get him back—until Ian shakes things up by playing the fake boyfriend card. They may not be actors, but they areexceptionallyconvincing.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 338
Kudos: 481





	1. You're a shitbag, Ian Gallagher

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna be honest. I never intended on starting another multi-chapter fic so soon after finishing [To Feel This Kind of Thrill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273281/chapters/55735186). In fact, I really thought I would be content to take a break from writing for a while, so I could just relax and focus on catching up on all of the wonderful fics that have been posted over the last few months. 
> 
> It turns out, I don't want to take a break from writing at all. Instead, I conjured up this idea, and spent the weekend outlining, editing, and revamping the entire plot from start to finish, until I was satisfied. It's fun, it's lighthearted, and probably kind of ridiculous. Because Ian and Mickey are ridiculous, and that's exactly how I like them. 
> 
> I am so, so incredibly excited about this, and if you're reading, I really hope you love it. This fic will be between 15-20 chapters, depending on how long or short I choose to make them.
> 
> And if you're curious about the title—I'm really just a big fan of wordplay and double meanings.

Chapter 1

Ian’s day begins with spilled coffee, a muddy doughnut, and misplaced keys. 

It’s that typical Monday morning cliche; filled with bad luck and even worse weather, as rain pours down from the darkened morning sky. 

And, for the love of fucking God, Ian is just trying to get to work.

His light gray t-shirt is now stained with a pretty spectacular trail of splattered coffee, and his chocolate glazed doughnut is in a muddy puddle on the sidewalk. 

So far, he’s had better days.

When he finally arrives at work, after spending an unreasonable amount of time searching for his keys to the shop, he’s late. Tremendously fucking late.

He was scheduled to open at ten o’clock, making him tardy by a whopping thirty-four minutes.

But, honestly? Fuck it. 

Today is his last shift, anyway.

* * *

Ian Gallagher, age twenty-four, has been working at Wicker Park’s Music Exchange for the last three years of his life. It never exactly qualified as a dream job, but he enjoys it there, nonetheless. 

The shop itself draws a decent crowd. Selling everything from vinyl records to instruments, there’s something for nearly every music lover. It acts as a consignment as well, accepting most instruments in decent condition for resale. 

Being somewhat of a music enthusiast himself, it’s been a pretty great place for Ian to work over the last few years. He strums away at his guitar when he has free moments in between customers, and it’s good for him. 

Overall, it’s been really good for him.

He’s been vigorously saving his money since he was nineteen, and financially stable enough to move out by the time he turned twenty-one. Since then, he’s been renting a relatively cheap studio apartment in the Wicker Park area, within walking distance to the music shop.

It may not be much, but it’s a space to call his own, and that sure is something. 

For Ian, getting out of his childhood home wasn’t just a goal—it was an absolute necessity. 

Because for Ian, childhood certainly wasn’t a cozy home in the Suburbs, or a warm and loving family environment. 

Ian grew up on Chicago’s South Side—an unforgiving neighborhood with an appropriately negative reputation. He grew up quickly, working by age fifteen and spending most years fending for himself. 

His parents were a fucking trip, to put it lightly.

Monica, his mother; a wildcard with unmedicated bipolar I, disappearing for years at a time, messing with Ian’s head more often than not, especially in the later years of his life. Ian was also twenty-one when Monica died, leaving the most tumultuous traces of herself deeply ingrained within Ian’s DNA.

Frank, his father; a deadbeat alcoholic, lacking even the most basic levels of compassion and empathy. Ian often found himself squabbling with Frank more than his other siblings, as their feelings for each other ranged from indifference to pure dislike, depending on the day. Ian hasn’t seen Frank in years, without a shred of love lost between them. 

At the very least, Ian found solace and solidarity with his siblings. The Gallagher kids ranged within nineteen years of one another, from oldest to youngest; Fiona, Lip, Ian, Debbie, Carl, and Liam. Now between the ages of thirty down to eleven, Ian and his siblings managed to grow up, for the most part, on their own. 

After years of uncertainty and strife, the six children of the Gallagher family have long since moved on with their lives, vowing to be better for themselves, as well as their future families. 

Fiona moved down to Louisiana, taking Liam with her, eager for a fresh start at a brand new life. Ian doesn’t talk to her much, but he’s planning a trip to see both of them soon. Maybe sometime within the next few months, if he can swing it.

Lip is married now, to a woman named Tami. They have a son, Freddie, whose first steps were taken while walking towards Ian—and, _holy fuck,_ that moment had been the sweetest kind of rush that Ian ever experienced. 

Ian thinks he wouldn’t mind a kid or two, one day, when the time is right. And, not to be _that guy,_ but Ian is also absolutely certain that he’s the favorite of Freddie’s aunts and uncles—he digresses in thought, but it’s surely a valid detail on the topic of family, right?

Lip lives with Tami and Freddie just outside Chicago in a comfy, suburban home; the kind that Lip always dreamed of having when he was growing up.

Debbie also has a child—a beautiful daughter named Franny. They share a two-bedroom apartment with Carl in downtown Chicago, and it seems to work well for them. It’s a fun place to visit, too, located in the middle of the city’s bustling nightlife. 

Honestly, Ian is really fucking proud of his siblings, and he’s really fucking proud of himself, too. They all deserved so much more than their parents were ever able to provide them with, and they’ve all managed to create it for themselves in incredibly admirable ways. 

But, life is a funny thing, sometimes. 

In a world filled with struggles and curve-balls, Ian never expected to find himself in the middle of a windfall. Because, when Ian hears news of his father’s death, he’s far more surprised to find that Frank fucking Gallagher wasn’t his father at all.

Meanwhile, his biological father was absolutely fucking _loaded._ And Ian, for some mystifying reason, is named in his very impressive will.

Ian’s real father, and _Frank’s own fucking brother,_ was Clayton Gallagher; an exceptionally wealthy man who had lived in a multi-million dollar home within the North Side area of Chicago. 

And it makes sense, really. So much fucking sense. The disconnect between Frank and Ian always felt stronger than it ever had with any of his siblings.

Maybe Frank knew, or maybe he didn’t, but the resemblance between Clayton and Ian was absolutely uncanny. 

If Frank missed it, it had been staring him in the fucking face for years. Then again, Ian figures that decades of sustained intoxication must cause pretty substantial brain damage.

But it’s fucking mind-boggling to think about how different his life could have been, if he had grown up under Clayton’s roof. Except, when he really thinks about, Ian isn’t sure that he would have wanted it. Growing up on the South Side built a certain degree of resilience and self-sufficiency that Ian doesn’t think he ever would have developed, had he grown up in a more privileged manner. 

All the same, imagine Ian’s surprise, to find himself named in the will of a father he never knew. He has another half-brother, too; someone named Jacob with whom Ian has _no interest_ in forming a relationship with. 

Unsurprisingly, Jacob feels the same about Ian. 

In Jacob’s case, getting to know the bastard son born as a product of your dad’s illicit affair doesn’t sound like the greatest idea of a family reunion.

In Ian’s case—well, Ian already has enough family members. 

Clayton had been married once upon a time, but his wife’s death preceded his own by several years, leaving the entirety of his will to both Jacob and Ian.

Maybe it was a guilt thing—the knowledge of a son that he chose to avoid for twenty-four years, until it was too late.

It’s not like the fortune was split evenly down the middle, either.

Clayton was a multi-millionaire, with Jacob appropriately receiving a larger portion of the inheritance. 

Ian never heard the exact number, but it was something like ten million dollars, at least.

Not that Ian’s chunk was minuscule in any way, shape, or form. Because, in the end, Ian received a check for a very hefty $3,250,000—an _outrageous_ amount of money that Ian never thought he’d see in the entirety of his fucking life.

So, what the fuck does someone do with that kind of money, anyway? 

Ian decides on a few things, after mulling it over with Lip one night in a hazy combination of weed and disbelief. The high makes it easier to comprehend, somehow, and they get fucking giddy as they talk about it. 

For starters, he gives each of his siblings a cool $200,000, leaving him with $2,250,000 remaining. 

Which is _still_ fucking outrageous.

Next, he buys himself a car—a brand new, blue Jeep Renegade—his first car _ever._ It only sets him back about $30,000, which he pays in cash, driving out of the dealership with the sunroof down and the speakers blasting.

Then, he puts in his notice at the music shop. He gives a month, rather than the typical two weeks, offering his boss plenty of extra time to find an adequate replacement.

Plus, leaving the shop is somewhat bittersweet. 

It’s not that the job hasn’t been good to him, it’s just that he doesn’t really _need_ it anymore. He never planned on staying there forever, after all. 

But, moving forward, with an overwhelming amount of options, it’s been difficult to reach any form of _major_ decision. Like, what the fuck does he want to do with his life, with that kind of money available at his disposal?

Ian thinks about it pretty constantly, throughout the weeks following the arrival of his check. 

It’s not like it has to be a life-changing decision, but it just has to be something. Something for Ian to invest in and be proud of. Something to keep himself busy; maybe a place where he could incorporate his love for music.

And so, about three weeks later, when Ian stumbles upon that exact _something,_ he feels like he’s ready to take a leap of faith. 

A few blocks from the music shop, not too far from his apartment, lies a strip of bars, restaurants, and lounges. It’s a popular nightlife spot, as well as a daytime destination for many. 

On the corner of that very strip, Ian finds a unique building for sale. It’s modern, the front lined with tall windows and a sleek, black-marble frame. Its location gets Ian thinking—because what he really wants, more than anything, is to start playing music in front of a crowd. 

The logistics don’t really matter. He just wants somewhere fun, and somewhere laid back. 

Something about it just feels _right_ , and Ian really can’t resist checking it out. 

Inside the building, there’s a nearly-finished ground floor, built with a bar-like design. Ian learns that construction was put on hold when other obligations kept the owner from moving forward.

The bar counter is designed in an oval shape, set against the back left corner of the room, but other than an ebony-finished hardwood floor, there’s still a fair amount of work that needs to be done before it’s completed.

The second floor is similar by design, minus the bar counter, and it’s been turned into a trendy sort of tattoo shop. The shop owner rents the space, as well as the loft on the third floor, which means that, hypothetically, Ian would have his own tenant to deal with. 

According to Wyatt, the building’s current owner, the tenant is a reliable guy. He pays rent on time and keeps to himself, and he’s working hard to get his tattoo business up and running. 

They cut a deal when he first moved in; a marginally low combined rent cost of $3,000 per month in exchange for labor and building assistance. Of course, when his lease is up, Ian would have the option of raising the total cost of his rent, or evicting him entirely. 

And it’s tempting, really, because the loft is pretty fucking awesome, and Ian can absolutely see himself living there. 

Either that, or he could rent both floors out at a much higher rate.

Between the location and size of both the loft and tattoo shop, Ian could make at _least_ $6,000 per month, and probably much more, if he chose to rent the two floors out to new tenants. 

He’s not a fucking asshole, though, and it’s not like he’s starving for more money. 

For now, that part isn’t much of a concern.

In its entirety, the building costs $925,000—another deal, apparently _,_ since the space is in need of some additional work. And, for all the fuck Ian knows about purchasing an upscale property, or any kind of property, he goes over the logistics with Lip before making any hasty decisions. 

Lip has always had a brilliant mind, and an eye for this kind of legality bullshit. 

“You don’t know shit about owning a business, Ian,” Lip tells him. “ _Or_ a building. Where is this coming from?”

And, okay. Lip has also always had a knack for keeping his siblings in check.

“I don’t know,” Ian says. “I’m twenty-four years old and I don’t really know shit about _anything._ Doesn’t mean I can’t learn _,_ right?”

“Hey, you said it—“ Lip teases, grinning as he flips through pages and pages of paperwork.

Ian thinks about it, though. Because it’s a valid question. Where _is_ this coming from? 

Lip looks back at him thoughtfully. He’s not trying to dissuade Ian, so much as he's just genuinely curious. And, yeah, Ian really fucking appreciates that, because there’s nothing worse than having your ideas written off by someone you care about.

“It’s not really about owning a business. I just want to do something different, you know?” Ian muses. “I want to work in my own space—where I can play guitar at night, and maybe offer up that space to other local artists, too. We could do music on some nights. Comedy on others.”

Lip nods, tapping his fingers on the counter. 

“I’ll be honest. That was a much more in depth answer than I was expecting.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Shut up, asshole. You asked.”

Lip leans over to rub Ian’s shoulder, encouragingly. 

“I’m with you, okay? If you want to do this, then I think you should fucking do it.”

Ian nods, mulling through his thoughts. 

And, after a moment of quiet consideration, Lip speaks again.

“You can’t do it alone, though,” he says. “You need someone to help you finish renovating. You need a liquor license, bartenders. You really need someone to _manage_ it for you. You can’t do all of that shit on your own, man. Especially not on top of dealing with tenants.”

“Just one tenant,” Ian corrects. “It’s only one guy. He’s just leasing out both upper floors.”

“Right,” Lip says. “Well, either way.”

Yeah, either way. Lip is absolutely right.

After another hour of discussing details ad nauseam, in the end, Ian decides to make the purchase. 

He has no idea what the fuck he’s getting himself into, but he thinks maybe that’s part of what makes it so exciting. 

* * *

Even with a newfound fortune nestled discreetly in the palm of Ian’s hand, he’s still fucking human. And humans will _always_ have the occasional bad day, no matter how much money they have burning a hole through their pockets.

And so, after arriving unceremoniously late for his very last shift, Ian unlocks the shop as quickly as possible. He flips around the _OPEN_ sign and settles in behind the counter. 

It’s a six hour shift, and he expects it to go by relatively quickly.

Well, even _more_ quickly than usual, since he’s already effectively cut it down by thirty-four minutes.

He busies himself with inventory until he hears the bell ringing on the door, and he looks up just in time to see a guy, wet from the rain, struggling to lug in two guitars—one tucked awkwardly under each arm. 

Ian’s first instinct is to help as he swiftly makes his way towards the door, reaching out to grab one of the guitars right before the man loses his grip on it. 

“Jesus, you could have just made two trips,” Ian says, frowning when the man shoots him a dirty look.

He’s wearing light wash jeans and a navy blue hoodie; the hood pulled up over his head with the useless intention of shielding himself from the rain. 

“Yeah, thank you, I got that,” he grumbles. “You guys buyin’ used guitars here or what?”

Ian finds himself instantly annoyed by the bite of his tone.

Trying to be cordial to douchey customers is hardly Ian’s favorite kind of encounter. And when he finally looks down to examine the guitars, he’s anything but impressed—in fact, he has to fight to hold back his laughter. 

One is acoustic and the other electric, and _neither_ are in any condition for resale. 

They’ve been limiting their intake of used instruments, with the shop currently understaffed and overstocked. Basically, if it doesn’t look and play like new, they’re not taking it. 

“Sorry, but I really can’t accept these,” Ian says.

The man raises his eyebrows. “Why the fuck not?” 

“ _Because_ ,” Ian begins. “We’re only taking instruments in ‘like new’ condition right now. Both of these look like you threw them down a flight of stairs.” Ian picks up the acoustic guitar, pointing to its arm. “You have the arm of this one attached with _duct tape.”_

“Okay, you fuckin’ comedian. Got a manager here?” The man asks, setting the second guitar down beside him. “Could get your ass fired for shitty customer service, easy.”

Ian rolls his eyes and shoves the acoustic guitar back into the man’s chest. He grabs it by reflex, his piercing blue eyes staring daggers directly back into Ian’s.

“ _No,_ he’s not here,” Ian snaps. “And this is my last shift, so don’t waste your breath.”

At that, Ian’s grumpy customer seems to lose interest in their exchange. He shoots Ian the finger before grabbing both guitars, dragging them carelessly behind him, undoubtedly causing further damage. 

He kicks open the door as he goes, turning back to yell, “Hope the next fuckin’ guy hired in this shithole can at least afford a clean shirt!”

Ian looks down at the coffee stains splattered down his chest. He sighs. The irony of that statement is hardly lost on him. 

As Ian resumes working on inventory, the decision to quit Wicker Park’s Music Exchange begins to feel more and more justified. 

And maybe even a tiny bit like self-care.

* * *

When Ian’s shift comes to an end later that afternoon, it almost feels anticlimactic as he leaves the shop for the last time. 

He’s a newly wealthy man, with his entire life ahead of him, and he feels—not really any different, if he’s being completely fucking honest.

He goes home to the same studio apartment; the one he’s been living in since he was twenty-one, and although he can afford to move pretty much anywhere, he’s inclined to wait it out a bit longer. 

Truly, the more he thinks about it, the more he really wants the loft on the top floor of his building. 

There’s still a good eight months before the current lease agreement expires, but who knows. Ian could always try to buy his tenant out early. He would certainly make a generous offer—one that the guy likely wouldn’t be able to refuse.

Regardless, his studio apartment is comfortable, and its location is convenient. 

And, for now, it suits him just fine.

Meanwhile, Ian still has a lot to think about, like developing a plan for his music lounge. 

Or, _whatever_ it’s going to be.

He has a whole list of shit to figure out, from paint colors to seating choices to lighting options.

And, well, there’s really no better way to find some inspiration than by going there to look around. 

It’s late into the evening as Ian walks the few blocks to the building from his apartment, enjoying the breezy, springtime air. He unlocks the outer door when he arrives, entering its shared front hallway.

In the hallway, the inner door to the bar is straight ahead, offering a full-view into the unfinished space. Its frame is made from the same marble that lines the building’s sleek exterior. 

To the right, there’s a wooden staircase leading up to the tattoo shop and loft. The staircase and upper floors both have a homey walnut-finish, and Ian may not exactly have an eye for design, but so far, he’s really digging the vibe. 

As he sits on the floor of the empty room, scrolling through pages of paint colors and furniture options, he feels a brewing sense of anticipation.

And, more than anything, he’s _excited._

* * *

For someone who knows nothing about anything, Ian is definitely learning an awful lot as he goes. 

After about a week, he has a pretty solid plan. 

Or, he has a pretty solid semblance of a plan, which is certainly better than nothing. 

His liquor license is pending, and he’s hired both a manager and an assistant manager to oversee the operation of the bar itself. 

Kevin and Veronica Ball; longtime neighbors of the Gallagher house, back when Ian and his siblings were growing up on North Wallace. They owned a familiar neighborhood haunt until about three years ago—a dive bar called The Alibi Room. 

Ian lost touch with them after he moved out a few years back, but they’re just as good as family, and always will be. 

And that’s why, when Ian asks them to manage the bar—and offers them an impressive $75,000 sign on bonus—they say _fuck yes_ before Ian even has a chance to explain the details.

Veronica, or _V_ as she’s known by most of her friends, recently snagged a degree in business management, while Kev got involved with a babysitting service to bring in some extra income.

Plus, it allowed him to keep an eye on their twin daughters, Gemma and Amy. 

Like the Gallaghers, they moved on from their South Side days several years ago. After selling both their house and The Alibi, they moved to a beautiful, three-bedroom home in Pilsen—just fifteen minutes from the Wicker Park area. 

With V on board as manager, and Kev eager to work as her assistant, Ian feels a growing sense of accomplishment _._

It feels like he’s really getting somewhere with this, now.

* * *

One step at a time, everything is starting to come together.

And yeah, that feels pretty damn good.

Building purchased? Check.

Liquor and business licenses pending? Check.

Bar managers hired, with bonus bartending experience? Check and check.

For what it's worth, Ian thinks he's sort of doing a good fucking job, as he chips away at the details.

He's going to need more bartenders, probably, but he'll discuss that with V when they're closer to opening. Right now, he's switched his focus back to the overall purpose of the lounge. 

And Ian has decided, first and foremost, that he doesn't want it to be fucking pretentious.

He wants it to be _fun._

He wants to sell everything from cheap beer to top shelf liquor. He wants a pool table and an air hockey table lined side by side. He wants a fucking juke box in the corner, with an old school photo booth in the back of the room. He wants a dart board on the wall, with arcade games like Pac-Man and Pinball and shit.

And so, he orders all of them. 

Because he’s excited, and because he _can._

Near the wall of windows lining the front of the building, Ian settles on a slightly raised platform, just big enough for a small band. 

They’ve officially decided on theme nights—musicians a few nights a week, comedians on others, and sometimes karaoke, if people are feeling so inclined. 

V is handling talent scouting, in charge of screening and scheduling up and coming artists for gig nights starting in June. 

And Ian—Ian really doesn’t want much for himself. A few nights a week, he just wants to play his guitar, maybe even just for an hour at a time. 

He’s not looking to be a professional musician, and that’s never been his goal. He just wants to play live music because he _enjoys_ it, and this is, without a doubt, the best opportunity to make that happen. 

It gives him a rush, the thought of performing in front of a crowd, and it’s a good feeling. 

It certainly beats playing behind the desk at the Music Exchange, strumming a few notes in between crabby customers.

* * *

After five full days of nonstop labor and extensive planning, Ian officially gives himself a break _._ Both physically and mentally, he’s fucking beat. 

He calls it quits for the evening, and he definitely won’t be doing a damn thing tomorrow. 

Not only does he have a shit-ton of furniture scheduled for delivery next week, but he also managed to successfully paint the entire ground floor in just two days. 

Two very, very long days. 

But, finally, it's fucking done. It's fucking done, and it looks fucking _great._

It’s a silvery metallic shade—one that Liam picked out, all the way from Louisiana. 

Fiona preferred a darker gray option, but Ian definitely liked Liam’s suggestion the most.

Just as Ian is preparing to head home for the weekend, it occurs to him that he hasn’t seen anyone come or go from the building at all—at least not since he started pulling long hours at the beginning of the week. 

He’s been so busy that it _almost_ made him forget about his tenant. 

There’s literally a man paying to live and work above the lounge, and Ian hasn’t even met him yet. He really just wants to introduce himself, and it certainly can’t hurt to see if the guy is home.

He knows very little about him, besides what he’s read on paper. His name is Mickey Milkovich, and he’s a twenty-six year old tattoo artist. 

The tiny bits of info paint a very vague image.

Not to mention, Mickey is getting a very generous break on rent for a reason—he’s supposed to help with the building, which Ian could absolutely use right about now.

Ian peers through the door of the tattoo shop first, but the lights are off and it doesn’t seem to be open. And, well, that’s not exactly surprising. If Mickey hasn’t been around all week, his tattoo business clearly isn’t operating without him.

When that’s a bust, Ian makes his way up the second flight of stairs, stopping when he reaches the closed wooden door of the loft.

And, really, Ian could just unlock the door, if he wanted to. But that would be rude—not to mention incredibly unprofessional. 

So, he knocks three times, pauses, standing awkwardly at the top of the stairs as he tucks his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

He calls out, “Hello? Anyone in there?” 

There’s nothing but silence in response, though, as he presses his ear against the door. 

Maybe this Mickey guy hasn’t been home in a few days. Really, Ian just wants to say hi and put a face to his name. 

And, who knows. 

Maybe Ian wouldn’t mind making a friend, either.

It’s fucking weird to him, more than anything. 

A month ago he was working fifty-hour weeks, comfortable but hustling his ass off in an attempt to afford his apartment, plus save for his future. 

And now, somehow, he’s knocking on the door of the tenant that lives in _his_ building. The building that he purchased with fucking cash in hand, as if he ever knew a damn thing about owning _anything,_ let alone owning and renting out an apartment. 

After a few minutes, Ian gives up and makes his way back downstairs. He decides to send Mickey a text, using the phone number that Wyatt had given him.

 **_Ian:_ ** _Hi Mickey. This is Ian Gallagher, your new landlord. I’ve been trying to contact you to formally introduce myself, but you’re sort of hard to track down. Text me sometime when you’re free. I just wanna stop by to say hello._

Honestly, he’s not really expecting a reply. At least not in a timely fashion. He’s surprised when he hears his phone buzzing a few minutes later. 

**_Mickey:_ ** _Yeah... this is Mickey. Can you just say hello over texting? Does it really have to be this whole fucking production?_

And, Ian was definitely _not_ expecting the fucking attitude. What the fuck is that about? 

He tries to fathom the thought of talking to his current landlord like that. It probably wouldn’t go over very well.

 **_Ian:_ ** _No? Do you have a problem...? I was trying to be polite. Part of your lease agreement includes helping me with work around the building. So we need to talk about that._

 **_Mickey:_ ** _I have no problem_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _And great. Sounds riveting_

Jesus Christ, this guy. Ian feels the sudden urge to _evict him_ just for the fucking sake of it. 

And, he knows he shouldn’t respond. 

He knows that absolutely _no good_ will come from responding, because he has nothing remotely professional or appropriate to say, at this point.

But—he responds anyway.

 **_Ian:_ ** _Meet me on the first floor tomorrow at 10am. It’ll be unlocked. And save the fucking attitude._

Mickey starts typing back instantly, and Ian waits.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Whatever you say_

On that note, it seems that Ian’s whole _making_ _a friend_ idea isn’t exactly in the cards right now. 

He rolls his eyes as he pockets his phone, and he absolutely does _not_ send another reply. 

* * *

Today was supposed to be a day off. 

And, yeah, technically it is. 

Except, Ian still has to get out of bed. 

Which means, by default, it’s not really a day off.

His arms are sore from hours and hours of painting, and he just wants to keep sleeping. 

He’s absolutely certain that he could. 

Probably all fucking day, actually. 

_But,_ he’s meeting up with Mickey in an hour, and although he wants nothing more than to cancel on him, that really wouldn’t look good after essentially forcing him into it.

And so, he climbs out of bed. 

He exits his apartment once he’s showered and dressed, and decides to stop at a coffee shop along the way.

While he’s waiting in line, after taking a moment to swallow back his pride, he decides to send Mickey another text.

 **_Ian:_ ** _What do you take in your coffee?_

He waits a moment, until he sees that Mickey is typing up a response. He holds his breath, fully anticipating something combative.

Instead, he receives the opposite.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Black is fine_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Thanks_

Well, okay.

No combative words? No sarcastic tone?

_Weird._

Ian thinks that a person’s level of _bitchy_ is probably heavily dependent on how badly they’re craving a fresh cup of morning coffee. 

**_Ian:_ ** _No prob. Be there in 15 mins_

He shoves his phone down into the pocket of his jeans, and sighs.

At least coffee is a relatively simple way to temper a shitty attitude. 

* * *

Ian makes it there in ten minutes.

He shoves one of the coffee cups between his arm and chest, holding the other in one hand as he unlocks the front door to pull it open with the other. He does the same with the lounge door. 

And then, he waits. 

He sets both cups of coffee on the bar counter, glancing around the room to examine the freshly painted walls, mostly dry at this point. 

It looks pretty damn good, for being a one man job.

Just as Ian goes to pull out his phone, the lounge door swings open.

And, _finally,_ after days without any sign of life, in walks the very allusive Mickey Milkovich. 

Imagine Ian’s staggering level of shock, to find that he recognizes him.

Of fucking course, because this is Ian’s kind of luck.

This is the delicate balance of the universe, reminding Ian that everything in life comes at a cost—because, Ian is still a _Gallagher,_ after all.

And no Gallagher ever caught a windfall without a heavy hitting curve-ball following closely behind.

The curve-ball, in this case, being Mickey Milkovich; twenty-six year old tattoo artist, tenant of Ian’s two upper floors— _and,_ of course, none other than Ian’s douchebag of a customer from his last shift at Wicker Park’s Music Exchange.

“No fuckin’ way,” Mickey says, clearly experiencing the same moment of clarity. “This is a joke, right?”

Ian literally has to bite his tongue. He has a lot to say that he _really_ shouldn’t say, and he’s pretty fucking sure that his fists do, too.

“ _You’re_ Ian Gallagher?”

“Unfortunately,” Ian laments through gritted teeth. “For my whole fucking life.”

Mickey folds his arms over his chest, raises an eyebrow, and says, “You’re a shitbag, Ian Gallagher.”

Ian stares at him. Clicks his tongue. 

“Trust me. The feeling is mutual.”

Mickey mumbles, _“I bet,”_ under his breath. He walks across the room until he reaches where Ian is standing beside the bar, grabbing for the unopened cup. 

He stares at Ian, very blatantly sizing him up. 

“So fuckin’ explain this shit to me,” Mickey says, casually sipping on his coffee. “How do you go from being Wicker Park’s worst music shop employee, to buying this building? _My_ fuckin' building?”

“It’s not _your_ building,” Ian corrects him. “I think we’ve already established that.”

“So, what? You moonlight as a shitty music shop worker, then? Does your customer service reflect your award-winning landlord skills?”

“ _Jesus,_ can you fucking stop?” Ian says, voice raised. “You can either move out, or get the fuck over it. I don’t have time for this shit.”

Mickey frowns, then. “Don’t wanna move out,” he admits, sounding surprisingly earnest. “I actually like it here.”

It’s the first time Ian has heard him say anything even remotely close to a civil conversation.

Ian shrugs. “Then don’t. But stop talking to me like I’m out to ruin your life—you can’t actually be that much of an asshole.”

“Whatcha see is whatcha get, Gallagher,” Mickey says. “M’not an asshole. I just thought you were a colossal fuckin’ dick.”

“The shop wasn’t accepting shitty guitars, okay?” Ian begins, determined to explain himself. “I don’t know what else you want me to say. You know damn well that nobody would have bought those from you.”

Mickey nods, somewhat absently as he glances around the room, examining the recently painted walls.

“I was havin’ a really bad fuckin’ morning, man. Bad month, actually,” Mickey says after a moment. “Didn’t need me takin’ my shit out on you, though. So I’m sorry—for all that.”

Ian is more than a little bit dumbfounded, as he stares at Mickey curiously. 

“Okay. Well. Me too,” Ian says, decidedly. “No hard feelings.”

“No. None,” Mickey agrees, waits a beat, and then asks, “The fuck’re you doin’ to this place, anyway?”

Ian swallows a sip of his coffee. “When it’s done, hopefully in June, it’ll be a bar and music lounge.”

Mickey nods his head slowly, and Ian would even dare to say that he looks impressed _._

“That’s fuckin’ cool, actually,” Mickey says. “That shit could be great for my tattoo shop—your drunk ass customers trippin’ their way upstairs for a tattoo that they won’t remember the next morning. Sounds like a win-win.”

“What a way to advertise an evening,” Ian jokes. “Stop in for live music and a drink, wake up hungover with unexplained body art.”

Mickey chuckles, and Ian finds himself smiling. 

Because, honestly, this is the exact opposite of anything he had been anticipating. 

“Hey—you didn’t spill any coffee on yourself today,” Mickey says, unexpectedly, breaking their few seconds of silence. “That shit ain’t a good look, y’know.”

Ian pulls a face, ends up fucking laughing despite himself, and then, Mickey smiles back at him.

On second thought, maybe Ian really had been onto something, when he thought about making a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	2. Move your fuckin' ass, Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's plans for the lounge move forward. Meanwhile, he makes a friend—and manages to talk himself into some trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I really hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> Also, I'm behind on comments, but please know how much I appreciate every single one of them. I love you guys, and I'd love to hear your thoughts, as this story begins to play out!

Chapter 2

The next few weeks of Ian’s life feel like a whirlwind of fast-paced chaos. It’s the good kind of chaos; the kind that comes with anticipation and excitement, and the satisfaction of hard work paying off. 

It’s also a little bit overwhelming—but that sort of feels good, too.

Ian has been spending most days the same way. Wake up, take a shower, grab some breakfast. Stop for coffee, walk to the building, and get to fucking work. 

For what it’s worth, Ian prefers to do the bulk of the heavy lifting on his own. Despite hearing, _“But you can afford to hire people!”_ from literally everyone at least once, Ian has always been relatively independent. 

And, with just a little bit of help, he can do it just as well—if not better—on his own.

The place looks pretty fucking incredible, and Ian thinks it’s more than fair to pat himself on the back for a job well done. He _has_ had help, of course, from everyone around him. And, maybe more importantly, he’s had their support.

Lip, Carl, and Debbie have all aided in decision making; like finding the best locations for seating, lighting, and games. Kev and V have worked extensively on selecting alcohol options, and they also chose the liquor display behind the bar counter—a black, five-tier shelving unit; each shelf backlit by blue LED lighting. 

Ian liked the lighting so much that he decided to keep the same theme throughout the entire lounge. The ceiling is trimmed with LED strip lights that illuminate the room with a myriad of changing colors. It’s subtle but fun, especially as mood lighting late into the night. 

The bar itself has a set of blue lights in the same style, running the length of the counter and matching perfectly with the liquor shelves. 

For overhead lighting, they’ve settled on large, round, and black fixtures with cool white LEDs. It looks fucking awesome; the way all of the lights complement each other without being over the top. 

In the front of the room, the small, platform stage is set in front of the wall of windows, lined with the same blue lights along its base, with an added spotlight on the ceiling. There are dark gray blackout curtains above the windows, offering the option of privacy.

Seating choices vary from high-set, circular tables with bar stools on either side, to sectional sofas and armchairs with side tables and center tables for drinks and snacks. All of the tables are backlit with different pops of colored lights, because—according to Mickey—Ian is _fuckin’ obsessed_ with them.

And, no. That probably isn’t the right word. 

He does love them a whole lot, though.

However _,_ even more than the LED lights, Ian loves his section of arcade games. The set up turns out just as Ian imagined, with game units and a dart board in the corner opposite the bar, plus an air hockey and pool table in the same area. 

There’s a photo booth set against the back wall, right beside the threshold to a narrow hallway that leads back to two bathrooms and a small kitchen.

They’ve decided to serve basic bar food, like fried appetizers and wings. The kitchen is tiny in comparison to the rest of the space, but it will serve its purpose just fine.

Overall, after a week of heavy lifting, everything is pretty much fucking _done_ , in regards to appearance and design.

Sure, maybe it’s been a little bit chaotic. 

And, yeah, maybe it’s been a lot overwhelming. 

But, more than anything else, it’s turning into something pretty spectacular. 

* * *

On Friday evening, just two weeks from opening night, Ian feels a bubbling combination of excitement, relief, and pride. 

Also, a monumental level of _pain._

Ian has spent the better part of the week moving couches, tables, chairs, and fucking everything else to various parts of the lounge. 

Yes, it was his fucking idea to do it himself.

No, he doesn’t want to hear _I told you so._

He refuses to admit that he may have over-leveraged himself. Even just a little bit. 

And, okay, maybe he’s a little bit concerned that Mickey’s going to sue him for back pain in five years when he realizes that his premature back issues were, in fact, caused by that week he helped Ian with his stupid fucking lounge furniture.

“Y’know, when I agreed to help your ass around here, I expected like—fuckin’ painting and shit,” Mickey says after chugging down a bottle of Old Style. He’s slumped down on one of the couches, leaning on its armrest. 

“Well, if you recall, I couldn’t even track you down until after I had already _finished_ painting,” Ian retorts, reclined beside the couch in a brand new, comfy chair.

Mickey groans. “Still think you’re a fuckin’ dumbass.”

Okay, that’s fair.

“Free beer for life?” Ian suggests, raising his eyebrows, offering an apologetic expression when Mickey looks at him. 

Ian really does feel bad. 

In the beginning of the week, his siblings were around to help a lot more, but they all have jobs and busy lives that don’t revolve around Ian’s endeavors, and that's fine. Kev was able to help, too, but between caring for the girls and focusing on preparing the bar with V, he didn’t have a lot of extra time, either. 

Which, by process of elimination, left the brunt of the work for Ian and Mickey.

“Yeah, fine. Maybe,” Mickey huffs. “It’s a start.”

Ian smiles.

For the most part, they’ve kept things pretty professional, in the sense that they feel more like coworkers than actual friends. But Ian enjoys his company, even when carrying heavy items that leave Mickey yelling things like, “ _Move your fuckin’ ass, Gallagher—before I drop this shit.”_

They’re waiting for their pizza delivery, and Ian is fucking starving. As a few moments of quiet fall between them, Ian notices that Mickey has dozed off, head resting against the palm of his hand. Ian lets him sleep, stepping quietly outside for a smoke while he waits for the pizza guy.

Blood, sweat, and tears aside, the lounge really does look like everything that Ian was hoping for. 

He watches as people make their way down the street, entering in and out of shops and bars. It’s starting to rain lightly, the overcast sky mixing with just the slightest bit of sunshine, and it’s weird; the melancholic feeling that’s suddenly trying to wiggle its way into the forefront of Ian’s mood.

It’s not that Ian isn’t happy. He is. It’s just that, honestly, Ian is having trouble finding the kind of fulfillment that he's craving. 

Even with the lounge nearing its debut, Ian sort of just—wants something more for himself.

Maybe that’s the real difference between fleeting feelings and genuine happiness; the kind of happiness that not even money can buy. 

It’s no secret that money hasn't ever been high on Ian’s list of aspirations. It’s one of those inevitable things that you need to succeed, of course, but it’s still just a _thing._ It’s a thing that can, ultimately, get you other things. 

Which is fine, really. You can fill your life with as many _things_ as your heart desires. 

And maybe that’s enough for some people. 

Except, honestly, Ian doesn’t really think it’s enough for him.

With money, it’s true, Ian has been able to make something incredible out of nearly nothing—something to be proud of, something to enjoy, and something that can hopefully bring joy to others, too.

And that’s fucking amazing. It really is.

But, when Ian goes home at the end of each day, returning to the same studio apartment that he's lived in for the last three years, he still climbs into bed feeling a very consuming sense of loneliness.

It would be nice, Ian thinks, to have someone to share this with. Someone that he isn’t related to by blood. Someone who, maybe, Ian could see himself finding something with.

At twenty-four, Ian isn’t necessarily looking for marriage. In fact, he's not too certain that he _ever_ wants marriage. But, still—his relationship history is shaky at best, and it wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing if he met someone.

It wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing to fall for someone. 

Or, to have someone else fall for _him._

Lately, for some reason, he’s been thinking about it more. Wondering what it would be like.

Because he’s never had it with anyone, and he thinks that, maybe, he’s starting to really want it.

Not just sex, but _romance—_ something that Ian truly knows absolutely nothing about. 

At the same time, Ian’s experience with sex is both complex and simple—he’s worked in strip clubs, he’s done the escort thing, and he’s made questionable decisions for the sake of making money. He’s been manipulated and taken advantage of, and he’s had sex that he regrets, and sex that he doesn’t remember.

But, somehow, he’s never been in an actual relationship. 

It gets to him, sometimes, but he tries not to think about it. That isn’t him anymore, and it hasn’t been in years. 

But those things still happened. 

Throughout his teen years, those things still happened. 

And no amount of therapy has ever been enough to make Ian feel worthy of real love.

Not to mention, he just can’t fucking find it anywhere.

Of course, he still has the occasional hook up, from time to time. 

It’s not very often, though, and Ian struggles to find someone that he actually _wants_ to be with. He hasn’t gotten laid since December, to be completely fucking honest, which is just straight up embarrassing.

Is he picky? Who knows. Maybe. Except, he doesn’t even know what the hell he’s actually looking for. 

The only thing he’s ever _actually_ been certain of, is the fact that he’s gay. 

And, well, that’s great. But it narrows down nothing, and it’s gotten him absolutely nowhere.

Of course, now that Ian’s stuck in his own head, he’s effectively distracted when the pizza guy arrives; to the point that his only thought process is— _do I think this guy is hot? Is he my type?_

The answer is no, actually. 

He’s a decently attractive guy, by most standards; dirty blonde hair with brown eyes, sort of lean with a little bit of muscle, and about the same height as Ian.

Again, standardly attractive. 

But, no. Ian isn’t attracted to him.

And, that’s really okay. Because he’s here to deliver a fucking pizza, and this isn’t an episode of _The Bachelor._

Ian pays him and carries the box of pizza inside, finding that he’s suddenly very eager for a drink. 

Mickey is awake when Ian returns, already working his way through another beer. Ian sets the pizza on the table in front of the couch before grabbing a beer for himself, too.

“You better hope there’s fuckin’ pain killers mixed into this,” Mickey says, flipping open the box.

Ian takes a sip of his beer, shrugs his shoulders, and says, “They were all out of opioid-laced pizza. Cheese and pepperoni, Mick.”

Mickey pulls a face and flips Ian off before grabbing a slice, and Ian chuckles as he does the same.

And, because Ian is still trapped somewhere within the _I want a fucking boyfriend_ labyrinth of his brain, he finds himself looking at Mickey.

Like, really looking at Mickey.

It’s probably not the best time to gauge someone’s appearance, while said person is scarfing down pizza after eight long and sweaty hours of strenuous activity. 

And yet, Ian’s doing it anyway.

Mickey is pretty short, nearly a half-foot shorter than Ian, with a somewhat stocky build. He’s muscular in just the right ways, which has been more than apparent all week, as they’ve been lugging around heavy shit in every possible direction. 

He’s worn plain tanks on some days, and t-shirts with cut off sleeves on others. His arms are strong and nice to look at, and it’s true that Ian has found himself sneaking more than one cursory glance over the duration of the week. 

Today, he’s got a pair of gym shorts on, basic and black and nothing special. 

But, he has really nice legs, too. Also strong, and also an object of Ian’s hasty glances.

It’s not like he was actively looking, or thinking about it—he _wasn’t_ —but, you know. When you’re working closely with an attractive person that shit just sort of happens.

And, well. Okay, point made.

Ian is attracted to Mickey.

There’s other things, too, now that Ian is _staring._

Like his blue eyes, and his short, black hair. He’s cute _—and hot_ —and now Ian is just mentally beating the shit out of himself for even going there at all.

Jesus. Time to wake up, Ian. 

Once again, this isn’t a fucking episode of _The Bachelor_ , and men weren't put on this earth solely for Ian to decide who he does or doesn’t find appealing.

It doesn’t really matter, anyway. 

First of all, it’s not like Ian would address this shit in a million years. Like, yeah, that’s fucking funny. 

He can pretty much imagine a thousand humiliating ways in which he could initiate that conversation—

> _Hey, I know I’m your landlord and stuff. But, I think you’re hot, and I kind of think you might be my type. Not that I know what my type is, because I’ve never actually been in a real relationship, but—_

Anyway. No. Embarrassing. 

Even hypothetical Ian, the one living within his _I want a boyfriend_ brain, is embarrassed on his behalf.

So, okay. Fine. 

Maybe a _Mickey-type_ person is something that Ian likes, on a physical level. And maybe that’s something he should keep in mind. He’s bound to meet people once the lounge opens, and he’s probably going to be attracted to _some_ of them.

Personality wise, Ian doesn’t really have a clue. 

What the hell kind of attitude does he find attractive? What kind of traits would he even be looking for, when determining whether or not someone might be right for him?

Back to square one, he considers that for a moment. But, honestly, he’s never gotten to know anyone enough to figure that out, either. 

He definitely does _not_ know Mickey well enough, and since physical attraction is a pretty fickle thing, he’s not all that concerned about _actually_ liking him. 

And, you know.

Attraction tends to wear off, after a while. At least, most of the time. 

“Okay, you win,” Mickey says. “This shit is fuckin’ delicious.”

Ian snaps out of his headspace, nodding once as he takes a sip of his beer.

“Still good, even though it’s not laced with drugs?” Ian says, instantly filled with relief that he was able to come up with something amusing. 

“Mhm,” Mickey agrees, grinning. He stifles a burp into his fist, carrying on with a second slice. 

Ian continues to eat, too, glancing at Mickey every so often. He starts to take note of his tattoos, finding himself becoming curious. 

And, apparently, much more obvious. 

“Okay, the fuck’s up with you?” Mickey asks, suddenly. He looks at Ian with his eyebrows raised, expectantly. “You keep lookin’ at me—why? My tattoos?”

Ian frowns, setting his beer down on the table. 

He makes a mental side note that he needs to buy some damn drink coasters.

“Sorry,” Ian says. He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling incredibly awkward. “Uh, yeah. I didn’t notice some of your tattoos before tonight. Just wondering what they mean.”

Smooth save, Ian. 

He should probably just become a fucking lawyer at this rate, with his tremendously impressive quick wit and ability to lie.

“Don’t gotta be sorry,” Mickey shrugs. “But, listen. You can’t judge my skills as a fuckin’ artist based on my own tattoos, got it?”

Mickey holds out both hands, then, making them into fists. Ian has seen his knuckle tattoos before, obviously, but he never felt compelled to ask about them. They’re arguably mediocre—reading _FUCK U - UP_ , with each letter, and the dash, etched into a different finger. 

“These ones seem self-explanatory,” Ian says, jokingly. “And also _just_ the right amount of threatening.”

“Ain't got much of a story,” Mickey says with a chuckle. “My brother did them when I was barely fourteen. Felt like a badass at the time, though, let me fuckin’ tell you.”

Ian laughs.

Yeah, that’s pretty much exactly the kind of answer he was expecting.

“Your turn,” Mickey says. He gestures towards Ian. “You got somethin’ on your side, right? A bird or some shit?”

Ian feels a little flustered, because, _yeah,_ he does. He just didn’t know that Mickey had, apparently, been paying enough attention to notice. And that’s—well, Ian isn’t sure what to do with that. 

He nods, though, confirming. 

“It’s an eagle carrying a rifle—and before you _say_ anything, it’s ‘cause I had this big idea about enlisting, when I was younger.”

Mickey smiles, holding his fists up again.

“You think I’m about to judge _your_ tattoos?”

Ian laughs again, and something about this is starting to feel _good_. 

It’s easy, and it’s comfortable.

And, well.

Maybe Ian really could like Mickey.

“Gonna show me?” Mickey asks, catching Ian off guard.

“Show you what?”

“Your tattoo,” Mickey points to the general area of Ian’s torso. “We ain’t goin’ down our shitty tattoo list without at least fuckin’ showin’ each other.”

Sure. That’s a valid point.

Ian lifts his shirt up, just enough to show off the tattoo, located on the right side of his body, midway up his torso. He pulls a face, scrunching up his nose. He kind of hates it.

“I was, like, maybe sixteen when I got it done,” Ian adds, pulling his shirt back down.

“It’s not _bad,”_ Mickey says, pauses, and then adds, “Okay, maybe it’s a little bad.”

“Yeah, okay _._ Fuck you, Mr. FUCK U - UP,” Ian teases.

“I’ll give you a good tattoo one of these days,” Mickey says. “One you’ll be able to show off, unlike that fuckin’ eagle.”

Ian considers him for a moment. 

It doesn’t sound like the worst idea. He’s overdue for a new tattoo, anyway.

“Okay, maybe I’ll take you up on that,” Ian says. 

Mickey smiles triumphantly, before moving on to explain his other tattoos, and Ian realizes that he’s starting to really like listening to him talk. 

* * *

It’s late on Wednesday morning as Ian scrolls through a list of local talent, doing some research on various artists that V has already booked for the upcoming months. 

“‘Sup, Gallagher?” Mickey greets him as he walks through the door, holding a cup of coffee in each hand. “I kinda got a favor to ask you.”

Ian looks over at him curiously, smiling as he makes grabby hands for his coffee.

“This the kind of favor that coffee can buy?”

“Maybe. Probably,” Mickey says, deciding. He sets a piece of paper down on the bar counter before looking up at Ian. “That’s my cousin’s phone number—Sandy. She’s lookin’ for a job and I know you need more bartenders and shit, right?”

“I do, yeah,” Ian says with a nod. “Thanks, Mick. I’ll give her a call later today.”

Ian isn’t necessarily picky about who he hires, but it’s always an added bonus when someone comes recommended by a friend or family member. Mickey hops onto one of the bar stools, and begins to busy himself with his phone.

It’s been sort of like this, lately. Mickey will come by with coffee, if Ian doesn’t have time to stop on his way. 

Sometimes, Mickey heads back upstairs to his shop. Other times, he sticks around. 

Mickey has been spending most of his days preparing to reopen his tattoo shop, while Ian works on fine-tuning lounge details. 

Just before moving here, Mickey had a smaller apartment and was operating out of his own home. He had a decent amount of money in his savings account, and took out a small business loan a few months back.

Meanwhile, he’s managed to build up a small client base, so far, and many of them have already come back to him for second or third tattoos. 

Since moving to Ian’s building, he hasn’t completely opened to the public just yet. But with the lounge opening looming closer, he wants to start scheduling clients. 

And, yeah, on some nights he also wants to be available for drunken walk-ins—which could arguably skyrocket his workload. 

“How’s the tattoo shop stuff going?” Ian asks. 

“It’s going,” Mickey says with a shrug. “Just about ready to be back in business. Been doing all that online promo shit, 'cause _apparently,_ people don't take you seriously unless you got a fuckin' Instagram."

“That makes sense,” Ian says. “People want to see examples of your work, you know?”

“Guess so,” Mickey grumbles. “Gotta get a tattoo on you soon, then. So I can make you leave me reviews and shit."

Ian grins, shrugging his shoulders.

“We’ll see. Depends on how good you actually are. What if I hate it? I can’t just lie to the good people of the internet.”

Mickey raises his middle finger, and Ian chuckles as he resumes scrolling through the list of artists on his phone.

* * *

They’re a week from opening night, when Ian’s family comes by to check out the final result. 

It’s sort of like a soft opening. 

They keep it small and low-key; with Lip and Tami, Debbie, Carl, Kev and V, and the few bartenders that V and Ian hired—a guy named Dylan, a girl named Nessa, a few of _their_ friends, and Mickey’s cousin, Sandy.

And, of course, Mickey is there.

Nobody is performing tonight, but they have music playing through the speakers, and everything just feels _good_. 

Nessa and Sandy are pouring drinks for some of the guests, and Mickey is busy chatting with them, occasionally adding an extra shot of vodka into drinks that he thinks aren’t strong enough. 

Lip came up with the name Rhythm Recall, one night when he and Ian were discussing options, and it sort of just stuck. It’s catchy, easy to remember, and it sounds like something that people could easily be drawn to.

Plus, Ian doesn’t feel creative enough to come up with anything better.

Ian is sitting with Lip near the pool table when Mickey catches his eye, smiling at him from across the room. Ian smiles back, and when he turns back to Lip, he’s got an eyebrow raised, like he’s coming to some kind of conclusion.

“What’s up with that?” Lip asks, and Ian is puzzled as he stares at him.

“What’s up with _what?”_

“You and that Mickey guy,” Lip clarifies. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him, yeah?”

Ian doesn’t really know how to respond to that. 

Lip is just a little too intuitive for his own good, sometimes. 

“I mean, yeah,” Ian begins. “But, he lives and works upstairs. His rent is literally figured on helping me with this place, you know?”

“I guess,” Lip says, although he sounds unconvinced. “You just—you sort of seem like you’re into him.”

Ian’s stomach twists anxiously, as he shuffles in his seat. “I’m not into him.”

That’s a lie, but there’s no sense in digging himself into a hole over nothing.

“Okay,” Lip says. “Glad you guys are getting along, though.”

He drops the subject, after that, and Ian is grateful to talk about literally _anything_ else.

The night passes by smoothly, and they’re close to calling it a night when Mickey unexpectedly pulls Ian aside.

They’re standing in the back of the lounge, near the photo booth, and Mickey has a relaxed grin on his face; a little bit tipsy from a leisurely-paced night of drinking.

“Got you somethin’ for your opening next week,” Mickey says, and it absolutely isn’t what Ian was expecting. “Should come in handy, I think.”

He hands Ian a paper bag, simple and to the point, and Ian starts laughing as soon as he looks inside.

At the bottom of the bag, there are several stacks of drink coasters, written in an ironically fancy font, that say, “ _Don’t FUCK UP the table (please).”_

Once Ian stops laughing, he can’t stop _smiling,_ as he looks back at Mickey and shakes his head. There’s a pang in his chest over the fact that Mickey actually bought him a gift, and a fucking thoughtful gift, too. 

“These are fucking great,” Ian says, finally. “Just the right amount of aggressive, while still managing to be polite.”

“ _Exactly,”_ Mickey agrees. 

Ian thanks him, and spends the next few minutes setting the coasters on different tables. He scatters them across the bar counter, earning a hearty laugh from Kev and Sandy, as they sip on drinks from their bar stools.

Once the night comes to a close, Ian ends his day with a hot shower back at his apartment.

He climbs into bed with a smile on his face, and he definitely does _not_ think about Mickey as he falls into a comfortable sleep.

* * *

After another week passes by, it’s almost hard to believe when opening night finally arrives.

It’s just one of those surreal things, like going to a long-awaited concert or any kind of exciting, major event. 

They’ve done their fair share of advertising around the neighborhood, and the flashing Rhythm Recall sign above the building’s door is a serious draw. Ian thinks that, even if this _wasn’t_ his own lounge, he’d still be intrigued enough to check it out.

And, well, that’s definitely the idea.

They open at four, with an extended happy hour from four to seven, and Ian’s surprised to find that they’re actually sort of steady, with people already trickling in throughout the first hour.

Of course, it helps to open on a Friday, as the neighborhood begins to come alive.

Friday brings the promise of the weekend to follow, with people either looking for good music, or looking to get shitfaced _while_ listening to good music.

Tonight, Ian sort of wants to do both.

V chose a soft rock band for tonight’s entertainment, and Ian really enjoyed their music when he looked them up last week. They’re scheduled to play through the night, with a few breaks in between, and it seems that they’re already drawing a decent crowd.

Things are going smoothly, and Ian feels _happy._

He’s standing by the bar when Sandy approaches him, leaning across the counter to poke him in the shoulder. Ian turns around and smiles at her.

“Not bad, Gallagher,” Sandy says. “Can I make you a drink?”

Ian thinks about it for a moment, but settles on a beer. Sandy mutters something about how he’s _not very exciting,_ but winks at him as she passes him the bottle.

He can feel her eyes on him as he turns his head towards the band, and he looks back at her after a few seconds, narrowing his eyes. 

“Am I missing something?” he asks, stupidly.

She tilts her head to the side, a peculiar expression on her face.

“You seem like a good guy. Y’know, as far as rich, business assholes go.”

Ian purses his lips, furrowing his brow.

“Thanks—I think?”

“Yeah, it’s a compliment,” Sandy confirms. “You’re just, normal, or something.”

“I guess I am,” Ian agrees, smirking as he repeats, “Normal, or something.”

Sandy gets pulled away by a group of customers after that, offering Ian a soft smile before switching back into work mode.

It’s not really a _big deal_ or anything, but Ian sort of wishes that he had used the opportunity to ask Sandy about Mickey. He really did expect him to show up tonight. 

As the clock ticks on, Ian can’t help but feel a little bit of disappointment.

It’s not like Mickey had any sort of obligation to come to opening night. It was nice of him to come last week, and even nicer of him to bring Ian a gift. 

And it’s not like Ian knows his schedule. 

Maybe he booked a client, or maybe he’s doing _literally_ anything else, because it’s really none of Ian’s business. 

But Ian definitely hoped to see him.

Truthfully, he has more fun when Mickey is around. 

Pestering Sandy about her cousin’s whereabouts feels a little bit invasive, honestly—although he keeps fighting back the urge to ask, anyway.

He decides to distract himself by joining Lip and Carl, who are playing a rather competitive game of darts in the game corner. Lip smiles as Ian joins them, taking a sip of his Coke—it’s one of the old school bottles, because cans are too boring, and the bottles seemed much more fitting. 

“Good turn out, huh?” Lip asks, rubbing gently at Ian’s shoulder. “My brother, the fucking business owner. All successful and shit. Who woulda thought?”

“Not me,” Carl says, throwing a dart hard at the wall.

Ian shoves him, all affection and no malice, as Carl smiles at him in return. 

Unfortunately, Ian has never had the greatest poker face, and his disappointment isn’t lost on Lip, as Ian glances around the lounge. 

Lip frowns and says, “What’s wrong, man?”

“Nothing,” Ian responds, a little too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. Just taking it all in.”

And, yeah, right. Ian knows that Lip isn’t about to buy that.

Lip leans back against the pool table, looking at Ian expectantly, like he’s waiting for an explanation that Ian really just isn’t willing to give him.

“You gonna tell me what’s really going on in that head of yours?” Lip asks.

Ian raises his beer to his lips, taking a few gulps and shaking his head _no_ at the same time.

* * *

As the hours continue to roll by, Rhythm Recall has become legitimately _busy._

Sandy, Nessa, and Dylan are all working vigorously behind the bar, while V checks on guests around the lounge. She’s clearing away empty glasses and bottles, returning to the bar for refills whenever requested. Kev is frying up food in the kitchen, as the drinks continue to flow, and customers begin to work up an appetite.

They’re making really good tips, too.

Sandy waves a hundred dollar bill at Ian, before shoving it into her bra with a satisfied smile. 

Honestly, the entire night feels _almost_ too good to be true.

Except for the fact that it’s nearly ten o’clock, and there has still been absolutely no sign of Mickey anywhere.

And Ian definitely feels a little bit like a teenager; like he’s dateless for Homecoming, wishing for a misguided crush to show up and ask him to dance.

Ian does still have fun, of course. 

He challenges Carl to an air hockey match, _wins,_ and takes stupid photo booth pictures with Lip. He sits near the band for a while, enjoying their music and thanking them for performing. 

It’s after eleven when Ian decides to go out for a smoke, stopping dead in his tracks when he turns towards the door. 

His attention becomes effectively diverted as he sees Mickey step into the hallway, watching him shove another man into the wall directly across from the stairs. 

It’s not a friendly encounter. 

Ian is torn somewhere between knowing that this isn’t his business—versus his very _strong_ urge to rubberneck.

And, shit. What would opening night of _anything_ be without a little bit of unfounded drama?

He can’t hear them over the band playing through the speakers, but they’re clearly yelling at one another, and when the unfamiliar man shoves Mickey back, Ian decides to intervene.

He pushes through the crowd, reaching the door quickly. He steps into the hallway, making himself known as he asks, “Everything okay out here?”

 _“_ Fuckin’ marvelous,”Mickey growls, his voice raised. “Ryan was just leaving. He came here by mistake—he’s late for his reservation to the clown convention around the corner.”

Ian forces himself to hold a straight face, but he struggles to keep from laughing.

“C’mon, Mickey—” The man, apparently Ryan, says pleadingly. He gestures towards the lounge door when he says, “You can’t kick me out of a public place.”

Ryan turns to Ian, almost like he’s looking for some kind of confirmation that he’s welcome to stay. 

Ian isn’t going to give him that. 

Because, no, Mickey can’t technically kick Ryan out of Ian’s lounge. But this is still Mickey’s building, too. Mickey has both a business and a home on the same property. He should be comfortable with whoever the fuck is on the premises, and it’s more than apparent that Ryan is _not_ someone Mickey is comfortable with. 

“I think you should go,” Ian begins. “I may own the building, but it’s just as good as Mickey’s, too. I’m not interested in defusing any fights tonight. Plus, Mickey’s the closest thing I’ve got to a bouncer, so. Get out before he _throws_ you out.”

Okay, that’s a lie. Mickey isn’t a bouncer at all, but Ryan doesn’t have to know that. It seems that he doesn’t really need to be told twice, although the stubborn air about him remains the same. He exits without another word.

At the same time, Ian can almost feel the tension exiting Mickey’s body as he exhales, his shoulders deflating into a more relaxed position. 

He looks at Ian, offering a small nod as a thank you, and Ian nods back. 

“What the fuck was that about?” Ian asks, looking to Mickey for any form of explanation.

He still looks somewhat distressed, rubbing a hand down his face as he stares towards the outside door, watching Ryan make his way across the street until he’s finally out of sight.

Mickey sighs, huffs out a disdainful sort of laugh, and finally looks back at Ian.

“My fuckin’ ex,” he says, a sense of enmity apparent in his voice. “I was stayin’ with my cousin to avoid him, around when you first bought this place. He’d fuckin’ come around here and _wait_ for me. Did that shit at least four times before I fuckin’ bailed for a while. I thought he’d stop, y’know?”

It’s not really the answer that Ian was expecting, but he’s also surprised by how much it _bothers_ him. It’s not like he has any real attachment to this situation, but something about it still rubs him the wrong way. 

Maybe it’s the complete lack of boundaries, or the disregard for Mickey’s wishes. Ian has been in similar situations before, with creeps who thought they were _entitled_ to him, and it pisses him the fuck off in a really big kind of way.

“You could—“ Ian pauses, tries to come up with a rational statement, but ends up saying, “—You could literally beat the shit out of that guy.”

Because, it’s true. Ryan is relatively small. He’s maybe just a bit taller than Mickey, but Mickey has a much more solid build. He would easily have the upper hand in a fight, no doubt about it.

“I’m tryin’ to do this new thing where I don’t get the cops called on me,” Mickey says. “Couple reasons. Ryan and his shithead friends live near here, and two of them are part of the fuckin’ Chicago P.D. And, also ‘cause I’m on probation that ain’t up for another two months.”

That makes sense. Sort of. Ian still thinks that Ryan deserves a hard hitting punch to the face. 

“Also, before you ask—I’m on probation for shooting my dad in the fuckin’ leg.”

Okay, sure. That was going to be Ian’s next question. And, with that bit of info, he now has several more. 

“Uh, you busy right now?” Ian asks, abruptly. “If not, do you mind if I grab us some drinks? Stories about shooting your parents always seem to mix better with drinks.”

Mickey shrugs, a smile spreading across his face. Ian takes that as a yes. 

Right as Ian turns to grab the door, Mickey adds, “Sorry, by the way. Been dealin’ with this shit all night. Didn’t mean to miss your opening.”

He sounds like he genuinely feels bad, and Ian’s heart is racing.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Ian says.

He means it. 

And then, he turns his head quickly as he rushes back inside to grab their drinks, trying desperately to hide the fact that he can’t stop smiling.

* * *

In retrospect, Ian thinks it’s probably in poor taste to leave early on the opening night of your own music lounge, but shit happens. It’s not like he isn’t _there,_ he’s just two floors above, lying in a hammock on the balcony coming off the back of Mickey’s loft. 

The bar should stay open until about three, maybe, or longer depending on business. It’s only just nearing midnight, and it’s not like Ian’s going to be gone for long.

He’s got a mild buzz going as he nurses another beer, and he feels pretty good. Mickey is across from him in a gravity chair, fully reclined, steadily sipping whiskey through a purple crazy straw. 

Ian can’t take credit for the bar’s straw choices.

It turns out, Mickey really enjoys talking about shooting his dad. In fact, it’s the most animated that Ian has seen him get over anything.

“He pulled a fuckin’ gun on me, so I shot him in the leg. Shit really isn’t the most exciting story,” Mickey says with a shrug. “But trust me when I say it felt fuckin’ _fantastic_ to watch him drop to the ground. Fuckin’ good. Hope it hurt.”

If one thing is apparent to Ian, it’s that Mickey deserves much better than the cards he’s been dealt throughout his life so far. He’s had it rough; objectively worse than Ian in a lot of ways, and Ian feels for him.

Although they both came from shitty neighborhoods, Mickey’s childhood was much different. He grew up about twenty minutes south of Ian, in an equally dingy community. His mother disappeared when he was barely ten years old, and his father is a well-known criminal, spending years in and out of jail cells and prison sentences. 

“You know I didn’t even fuckin’ come out until last year?” Mickey says, almost like he can barely believe it himself. “When I was twenty-five fuckin’ years old. What a joke, right? And even then, I still kept that shit from him.”

There’s homophobic and then there’s _homicidal_ , and it turns out that when you combine the two, you get none other than Terry Milkovich. 

But Terry didn’t find out from Mickey. 

In fact, while Mickey moved to Wicker Park to start his life as an openly gay man, his siblings and cousins fully intended on taking that shit to the grave, before ever outing him to Terry.

Enter Ryan.

“Ryan wasn’t my fuckin’ dream date or anything,” Mickey says. “We met on one of those dumb app things. Tinder or whatever. M’not—I wasn’t exactly out bangin’ dudes every night. He was the first guy I got with since actually being out.”

Ian hums. “Right, so. How exactly did you go from Tinder fuck buddies to hating his guts?”

“‘Cause he’s a fuckin’ douche, that’s how,” Mickey grumbles. “We fucked, it was whatever. It was easy, so we kept doin’ it. It wasn’t—it’s not like I was raving about it, but it was better than fuckin’ a girl.”

Mickey leans over to grab a beer from the case beside the hammock, and Ian chuckles as he watches him struggling to reach it. He picks up a bottle and leans over to meet Mickey in the middle, just close enough for him to reach.

“So, yeah, we banged a few times,” Mickey says as he twists off the bottle cap. “I guess we sorta did the _‘dating’_ thing—” Mickey pauses, forms dramatic air quotes with his fingers, and continues. “Never thought it was some big fuckin' thing, though. But then, he started to get fuckin’ weird about shit. He wanted to know where I was, what the fuck I was doing. He was callin’ me his fuckin’ _boyfriend_ to his friends. Which—whatever—but it wasn’t really like that.”

Mickey takes a few gulps from his beer, but immediately dives back into the story after swallowing.

“I called him out on his shit, told him he needed to back off. He _didn’t,_ so I broke it off completely. And you know what the fuck he does? He tracks down my dad, calls him up, and tells him I’m fuckin’ gay.”

Ian sits up now, staring at Mickey with wide eyes. 

Because, holy fuck. How disgusting of a person do you have to be, to pull something like that?

“Fuckin’ Ryan, growin’ up with rich, progressive parents. The kind that throw you a fuckin’ comin’ out party with gay, rainbow balloons and shit when you turn sixteen. He didn’t _get_ it. Bastard could have gotten me fuckin’ killed.”

Ian tries to wrap his mind around it, but no matter how he tries to comprehend it, his reaction remains the same—Ryan deserves to be kicked in the face. 

“Jesus, Mickey. Next time he comes around, just beat him the fuck up anyway. Or, shit, I will.”

“Nah man, he ain’t worth it,” Mickey says. He goes quiet for a second, looking at Ian curiously. “Y’know, you don’t give me _rich asshole_ vibes, like the ones I got from Ryan or his fuckin’ friends.”

Ian smiles, tilting his head from side to side. 

Yeah, he’s definitely starting to see Mickey and Sandy’s family resemblance.

“That’s because—I’ve only qualified as a _‘rich asshole’_ for about two months,” Ian explains, and then, elaborates, “Inheritance. Rich dad that I never knew. Sounds like something out of a shitty movie, right?”

Mickey looks—intrigued, maybe? He smiles, then says, “Makes sense. Didn’t seem like the type to be hittin’ up country clubs and shit.”

“Not really the kind of people I like to spend my time with,” Ian says.

A smile tugs at the corners of Mickey's lips. He asks, "Hm. What kinda people do you like to spend your time with, then?” 

And, Ian might be clueless, but—it feels like something. An implication. Maybe even a little bit like _flirting_.

Or, maybe Ian is still stuck very heavily in his _I want a boyfriend_ brain, now combined with a growing level of intoxication. 

“I’m still figuring that out,” Ian says. Because it’s true, really. “But—I like the people I’ve met, so far.”

Mickey is literally the only person that Ian has formed any kind of friendship with. 

But, he doesn’t have to know that.

“Good,” Mickey says, simply.

And then, it seems like he realizes that he’s gotten off topic, suddenly switching back to their previous discussion. 

“Long story short, I hate Ryan’s fuckin’ guts. And I’m on probation for shooting my dad, since they didn’t have _enough_ evidence to fully prove self defense. No jail time, though. Just a couple months of probation. Probably ‘cause Terry’s on a first name basis with the Cook County court system.”

Ian nods, taking it all in. 

After thinking about it, he says, “I could add an extra door on for you. Like, at the bottom of the stairs. Just a basic door like the one for the lounge—except it could stay locked at all times.”

If nothing else, it’s an extra barrier. So Ryan can’t sit on the fucking steps outside Mickey’s shop or apartment, waiting for him to come home. It would protect him against his dad, too, although Ian doubts that Terry knows where Mickey lives. He doesn’t want to push the subject.

Either way, with the lounge being open, the outside door will be unlocked more regularly. 

No sense in taking any chances. 

“I guess I could put up a sign for people to call when they show up for tattoo appointments. Or even walk-ins could call, right? It’s not like I’m _afraid_ of Ryan. I just don’t want to fuckin’ deal with him, anymore.”

Ian gets it. You don’t have to be afraid of someone to hate their guts enough to not want them around. And, when the person in question can’t take no for a fucking answer, Ian thinks it’s more than warranted to feel that way.

“He’ll be back, y’know. I guarantee that shit,” Mickey says, irrefutably. “He’ll come around the lounge to wait for me with his weird ass friends.”

Ian doesn’t doubt it. But, next time, at least he’ll know who he’s looking for. 

* * *

It’s about two in the morning, when Ian hears his phone buzzing. He unlocks the screen and pulls up his messages, wincing when he notices the time. 

Yeah, he’s a fucking idiot. 

He definitely didn’t mean to be gone this long. 

**_Lip:_ ** _Dude. Hello? Where the fuck are you?_

Seriously, _shit._

How is he supposed to explain this? 

Lip is going to put him through the fucking ringer when he finds out why Ian actually left.

 **_Ian:_ ** _Coming now…. sorry_

 **_Ian:_ ** _Don’t leave_

“I gotta go, Mick,” Ian says urgently, hopping down from the hammock. “I’ve been gone for over two fucking hours—they’re gonna have my ass.”

Mickey stands up, frowning as Ian starts to head back inside.

“Wait, hold up,” Mickey says, stumbling slightly as he follows behind him. “I’ll come with ya. Could use another drink.”

Ian smiles. “I don’t think you need another drink at all, actually.”

He absolutely does not. Mickey drank _most_ of the whiskey bottle, although Ian had maybe one or two mixed drinks from it. 

And—fuck, Ian gets immediately distracted, as he looks at Mickey. Because, shit. Mickey looks _good_ like this. His neck is flushed and he’s slurring his words, and—yeah—Ian is a little drunk, too. 

They’re also kind of stupid.

They struggle their way down both flights of stairs, steadying each other, and Mickey is far worse off in terms of balance. 

Ian is nearly certain that he’s going to fall right on his fucking face.

And Mickey keeps _grabbing_ at Ian’s arm, sort of absently, just in an attempt to get his bearings, but Ian is acutely aware of his touch. And acutely aware of the way Mickey’s fingers feel hot against his skin.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, they’re laughing like fucking fools, and Lip instantly grabs Ian’s attention as he steps into the hallway and calls out his name. 

Ian feels like he’s being _scolded,_ as if he just got caught doing something that he shouldn’t be doing.

Which, technically isn’t true. 

He really didn’t do anything. 

Lip holds the lounge door open for both of them, but not before shooting Ian an amused—although somewhat disapproving—glare.

Ian knows what Lip’s thinking. 

But, no. _It’s not like that._

* * *

When Ian wakes up the next morning, he’s thrilled to find that, although he has a mild headache, he doesn’t actually feel sick. 

Although, he’s _less_ thrilled when he realizes that he’s in Lip’s guest room, which very likely means he must have ended last night in a rather unceremonious way. 

Ian knows they had more drinks once he came back down from the loft, and they _definitely_ had shots, too. It’s not like Ian didn’t fucking deserve to let loose and celebrate. 

But, uh. He’s not going to make a habit out of it.

His phone is plugged in beside the bed, because Lip is a good brother, and he picks it up to check his messages.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Get h ome safe btxch_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _bidhx_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _BITCH_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Rhis whaskey paxked a punch_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Fucjk, whatever_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _I had fun with u tonifgbt_

Well. Fuck. 

First, Ian _laughs._ Because, yeah. Mickey was fucking shitfaced, and that shit had been hysterical. 

But his stomach _flutters_ as he rereads the texts, which is stupid as hell, because Mickey was drunk off his ass, and having fun doesn’t mean _anything—_ at least not the way Ian’s _I want a boyfriend_ brain is thinking. 

Ian needs to not think about it, period.

And, what he _really_ needs, is to walk-of-shame his ass through Lip’s house, find his big brother, and beg him for a ride home. 

While also hoping that he doesn’t feel the need to mention _Mickey Milkovich._

* * *

Of course, Lip _does_ mention Mickey Milkovich.

Again.

He tries to be nonchalant about it, like it’s no big thing, but he’s trying way too hard to make it sound like an afterthought. 

Ian knows him, and he also knows better.

“So,” Lip begins, glancing at Ian from the driver’s seat. “Seems like you’re getting pretty friendly with Mickey, huh?”

Ian rolls his eyes, fixating on the mirror outside the passenger window. 

“We’re not getting _friendly,"_ Ian argues. “We just got drunk, okay? He has some shit going on in his life, and we got caught up talking about it.”

“You disappeared from your own opening night for almost three hours, Ian.”

“Nothing happened, Lip,” Ian says in a singsong tone, leaning back against the headrest.

“But you like him.”

Ian exhales sharply through his nose.

And then, Lip chuckles, and Ian can see him shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. 

Ian tries extremely hard to fight back the blush in his cheeks, but feels his skin heating up like a particularly unpleasant sunburn. 

“It’s not a good idea, man,” Lip says after another moment. “He’s your _tenant._ That shit could get so ugly, so fast. Remember the loft? The loft that you’re dreaming about living in, once his lease expires?”

Ian remains silent, drumming his fingers along the edge of the window. 

First of all, he never made any decisions about the loft. It was a thought, but never a plan. 

Second of all, that shit is still a good seven months away. 

A lot can happen in seven months. 

“Just be careful, yeah?” Lip adds. This time, his tone is filled with much less snark and far more pity.

“Nothing happened,” Ian repeats. “And nothing is _going_ to happen.”

He fucking means it, too.

Even Ian isn’t dumb enough to actually get involved with his own tenant. He deserves at least a little bit more credit than that. 

* * *

It’s about six o’clock on Saturday evening, when Ian returns to the lounge. Kev has already opened for their second night, and Ian waves to him as he enters through the door.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Kev shouts, sliding a bottle of water smoothly across the bar counter. Ian manages to grab it right before it tips over the edge.

“Nice party trick,” Ian says with a smile.

“Thanks, man,” Kev replies, bowing down. “I’ll be here all week.”

Ian chugs the water down liberally, still nursing a dull headache. He replied to Mickey’s texts earlier, but hasn’t heard back from him yet. 

He sort of wonders if he’d be within his rights as landlord to go check on him, depending on how much time goes by without a response.

“So, where’s your boy toy?” Kev asks after a moment. “You disappear for hours, come back drunk with a guy all over you? Sounds like a celebration well spent, my dude.”

Ian nearly chokes on his water, setting the bottle down as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can you—uh, define _a_ _ll over me?"_

Kev looks confused, and then must realize that Ian—hungover, stupid, dumbass Ian—can’t remember a damn thing past coming back down from the loft. 

“Me and Mickey aren’t—” Ian pauses, trying to find the right words. “Nothing is happening between us. We’re friends, and we got drunk. It wasn’t more than that.”

“Huh,” Kev shrugs, almost like he's deciding whether or not he believes him. “You were kinda attached at the hip, y’know? And the way you kept looking at him, just sorta seemed like something.”

Ian blushes, again.

And his stomach flutters, again.

He drains the remaining water from the bottle, and it’s only a few seconds later that he feels someone tapping him on the shoulder.

As he turns around, he's not exactly sure who he’s expecting—but he’s definitely _not_ expecting it to be Ryan.

Ian hops down from the bar stool instantly, holding his arms up as he asks, “What the fuck?”

“Hey—Ian, right?” Ryan begins, hesitantly. “We met last night. I’m—“

“I know who you are,” Ian interrupts. “Which is why I started with _what the fuck?”_

“Not here to cause trouble. I just wanted to know when you last saw Mickey.”

Ian frowns. It’s none of Ryan’s business, and Ian highly doubts that something miraculous happened to change Mickey’s mind about him, since late last night.

“Doesn’t seem like your problem, does it?” Ian says. He folds his arms over his chest and adds, “Was I not clear enough when I kicked you out last night?”

“I haven’t done anything to you," Ryan argues. “So, legally, I don’t think you have a right to tell me I can’t be here. It may be your building but it’s still a _public_ place.”

Ian scoffs, and he’s not exactly sure about the logistics of that. However, he does know that Ryan still isn’t _welcome_ here, and he needs to get him the hell out.

“What exactly are you trying to prove? Mickey wants nothing to do with you. You need to see it in writing, or—?”

“I love him, okay?” Ryan says, pathetically. “I’ll do whatever it takes for him to realize how much he loves me, too.”

Jesus Christ.

This is some of the cringiest bullshit Ian has ever heard. And it really is _bullshit._ They were barely together, according to Mickey, and this guy is suddenly waxing poetic over how much he loves him? That seems doubtful. And embarrassing.

And, honestly, Ian is just fucking _annoyed._

“You love him so much that you outed him to his fucking dad, when he tried to break things off with you?”

Ryan shuffles his feet, looking instantly uncomfortable.

“He told you that?”

“ _Yeah_ , he told me that. Get the fuck out, Ryan,” Ian demands, pointing at the door. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Will you ask him to call me?” 

Ian stares at him, irately. “No.”

“Well, can you at least tell him I was here?”

Ian raises his eyebrows, and repeats, “No.”

“Fine. _Asshole_ ,” Ryan grumbles. “I’m coming back, though.”

“You probably shouldn’t.”

“Why not? This doesn’t concern you,” Ryan says. “It’s between me and Mickey. I don’t care what buildings you own or how much _money_ you have.”

“It does concern me, actually,” Ian argues. “And it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with my money.”

And, honestly, he’s not sure why he’s wasting his energy on this guy.

It _does_ concern him, though. 

It’s his fucking building, and Mickey is his tenant, and he has at least some sort of obligation to keep his tenant safe, especially when creepy ex-boyfriends are sniffing around.

It’s nearly the same as if Ian found out about a premeditated plan for a robbery—he’d do something about that, right?

Okay, maybe it’s not _exactly_ the same thing. 

But this Ryan guy is an entitled douchebag and short of paying him to stay the fuck out of the building, he really doesn’t know how to handle this. 

“How does it concern you, then?” Ryan continues. “Because he’s your tenant? Big fucking whoop.”

Ian has fucking had _enough_ at this point, stepping closer to Ryan, eyes narrowed down at him as he steps into his space, directly in front of him.

“No,” Ian says. “It concerns me because he’s my fucking _boyfriend._ You got that?”

Ryan’s eyes widen as he takes a step back, further away from Ian. He looks him up and down, and then he _scoffs._

“Yeah, right. You’re not his type.”

At this point, Ian goes from annoyed to _pissed off,_ because Ryan is an insufferable little shitbag. 

Ian could absolutely be Mickey’s type, so what kind of assumption is that? 

More importantly, why the fuck is Ian letting this stupid conversation get to him so badly? 

_Most importantly, why did Ian just tell Mickey’s ex that they’re fucking dating?_

Instead of letting it go—instead of leaving well enough alone and not making a bad situation so much worse, Ian pushes his luck even further and says, “That’s definitely not what he told me last night.”

And—what the fuck? _Why_ the fuck? 

The hypothetical Ian that lives inside his head is absolutely _begging_ him to shut the fuck up.

It’s just. It’s like fucking word vomit, and Ian can’t seem to quit while he’s ahead. Because he’s stubborn as all hell and this Ryan douche is acting like he’s _better_ than him. 

And, okay, maybe Ian can be a little bit combative, at times.

Ryan glares at him again as he heads towards the door.

“You think I can’t get him back, just because of you?” Ryan taunts. “Watch me.”

Ian rolls his eyes, raising his middle finger.

“I’ve got better things to watch, Ryan, but _thanks.”_

It’s true, though. He really does. Like his dignity, for example, as it flies further and further off into the distance.

When Ian turns back to the bar, Kev is _staring_ at him like he has twenty-seven heads.

“I must be missing something,” Kev says, cluelessly. “You—are or aren’t dating that Mickey dude?”

Ian stares back at him, heart pounding in his chest. He pulls out his phone to text Mickey, somewhat frantically, before Ryan manages to get to him first.

 **_Ian:_ ** _Hope you’re feeling okay… I really need to talk to you when you get a sec_

He reads the text back, and thinks that it may sound a little bit too intense. He adds—

 **_Ian:_ ** _Nothing urgent_

 **_Ian:_ ** _Well kind of urgent but nothing bad_

And then, five minutes later, he sends—

 **_Ian:_ ** _Wake up and I’ll bring you coffee or water_

He's panicking, really. Just a little bit—because he doesn’t know why the fuck he just _did that_. 

Now, Ryan is going to tell absolutely fucking everyone. All of these bitchy, rich, assholes who live around here and frequent this neighborhood; they’re all going to know. 

And they’re all going to be _watching._

Plus, Ian has to embarrass the absolute shit out of himself by trying to rationally explain this to Mickey. How the fuck do you rationally explain something like this to _anyone?_

His phone buzzes suddenly, and the vibration makes him jump.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _I might be dead… come up whenever_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _But only if you bring coffee AND water_

And then, as an afterthought—

 **_Mickey:_ ** _What the fuck. I really can’t type for shit when I’m drunk_

Like a bat out of fucking hell, Ian runs for the door, yelling to Kev, “Gotta take care of something! Be back later!”

Or not, if he decides to change his name and flee the country, never to be heard from again. 

Ian thinks it’s a considerable option, right now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	3. Are you outta your fuckin' mind, Gallagher?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian admits to a lie, and Mickey acts on an impulse.

Chapter 3

Sometimes, in terms of decision-making, Ian doesn’t always completely think things through, before diving in. Head-first, with his eyes closed. 

And, most of the time, even when he’s wrong, he doesn’t like to be told that he’s wrong. 

He can justify nearly every decision he’s ever made, good or bad, and fully convince himself that it was done for the right reasons. 

That’s just how Ian operates; headstrong and passionate, although maybe a little bit misguided, at times. 

The building investment was planned with much more finesse, comparatively, when he thinks about some of the other, more precipitous choices that he’s made throughout his life.

Meanwhile, his decision to push his luck with Ryan—by lying to his face about dating Mickey—falls far more along the _head first, eyes closed_ end of the spectrum. 

And now, like it or not, he’s left to deal with the consequences. 

* * *

Ian feels like he’s in a battle of wits with himself, as he rushes to the coffee shop around the corner. He calls Lip in a panic, relieved when he answers on just the third ring.

“What’s up?” Lip asks, calmly. 

Ian’s energy is spiraling into absolute chaos, by comparison.

“Uh, I fucked up,” Ian says, slightly out of breath. “Like, really fucked up.”

“Okay, take a breath,” Lip says, in that brotherly _lets-talk-it-out_ kind of way that he does. “What the hell happened?”

Ian enters the coffee shop, mumbling, “Hold up,” into the phone as he places his order. 

And then, he continues.

“I may have told Mickey’s shitty ex-whatever to stop—” Ian pauses, thinks of a way to word this that isn’t completely irrational, but comes up with nothing. “—Uh, to stop coming around the building.”

Lip interrupts him. “That doesn’t seem like a major fuck up. Just seems like you don’t want to deal with any bullshit, right? You made that sound way more dramatic than it actually is.”

While Lip is talking, the barista hands Ian a cup carrier with two waters and two coffees, and he nods his thanks as he hurries back through the door. 

Ian, dramatic? No, not at all. Never.

He appreciates the fact that Lip is so earnestly (and wrongfully) giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t let me finish,” Ian says. “He wasn’t taking no for an answer, and it was pissing me the fuck off. Just, he has this whole arrogant way about him that I can’t fucking _stand,_ and—”

“Ian, I get it—what the hell did you do?” Lip asks, cutting him off again. 

This is so incredibly embarrassing to admit, even to his own brother. Yeah, telling Mickey should be an absolute fucking breeze. 

“Okay, well. I may have, _accidentally_ , told him that Mickey is my boyfriend,” Ian says quickly through an exhale. “I had good intentions,” he adds after a second, in a feeble attempt at justification. “Like, I really thought it would make him go away.”

Lip is quiet for a second, and Ian glances down at the phone to make sure the call didn’t get disconnected.

And then, Lip says, “Ian, Jesus Christ. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Which, fine. That’s definitely the response that Ian deserves—and expected—but it’s not the one that he fucking _wanted._

 _“Fuck—_ you’re not helping,” Ian says back, raising his voice, more in dismay than any form of anger. “Tell me what the fuck I should do!”

Ian can hear Lip groaning through the phone, like he’s suddenly stressed on Ian’s behalf. 

“I told you not to go down this road,” Lip says. “And what do you do, instead of listening to me? You throw yourself in the _middle_ of the road. In front of an incoming bus.”

“You’re still not helping. I fucking get it, okay?” Ian says. “What was I supposed to do? He said he would keep coming around, and—”

“So you get a fucking restraining order like a normal person, Ian!” Lip shouts through the phone. “You don’t lie to him about dating your tenant!”

As a mental side note, Ian hates when Lip refers to Mickey as _his tenant._ They’ve started to become friends over the last month, at least by Ian’s standards, and he has a goddamn name. 

“Can you just call him Mickey?” Ian asks, as if that somehow matters right now or has anything to do with _anything._ He switches back to the actual subject, adding, “Fuck, Lip. It was the first thing that popped into my head, okay? Plus, a restraining order seems so fucking dramatic.”

Lip laughs, and Ian feels his face heating up under his brother’s rising scrutiny. 

“But pretending to date someone— _Mickey,_ who is also your _tenant—_ is somehow less dramatic?” Lip asks, rhetorically. 

Yes. Okay. Case and point, Ian fucked up.

Ian fucked up, and not even Lip has a way to talk him out of this one. 

“Judge me all you want, asshole,” Ian says with a sigh. 

He arrives at his building, entering through the front door and inhaling deeply. 

“Oh, I am judging you,” Lip confirms, sounding awfully amused at Ian’s expense.

Which seems pretty inconsiderate, since Ian is probably about to get the shit beat out of him.

Ian mumbles a monotonous, “ _Fuck you,"_ and promptly ends the call.

* * *

To Ian’s credit, he’s never been in this kind of predicament before. He’s never had to explain to someone—a friend, a tenant, _whoever—_ that in a stubborn moment of feeling challenged by a rich douchebag with a superiority complex, he felt the need to lie about dating said douchebag’s ex-boyfriend.

Or, not-boyfriend. 

Fling or hookup or whatever—at least he’s never done this sort of thing ever before. 

And, no, it’s not the most convincing argument, considering this is the sort of predicament that nobody should _ever_ get themselves into, period. 

Mickey opens the door just a few seconds after Ian knocks, and he looks rough; hungover and exhausted, as expected.

But he looks good, too.

His hair is unkempt and he’s dressed in a short sleeve, olive-green Henley. He has a pair of jeans on, the same light wash denim ones that Ian has seen him wear a few times before. 

And, yeah, that’s great. 

Congratulations, Ian. 

At least if Mickey beats the shit out of him, he’ll look good while doing it. 

It’s the little things in life that count.

Without hesitation, Mickey snatches a water bottle and cup of coffee from the carrier, and steps out of the way for Ian to come inside.

“I owe you one,” Mickey says as he pops open the coffee’s lid. “Been a while since I felt the need to drink fuckin’ coffee at 7 p.m.”

Ian offers a half-smile. “Well _,_ that’s what you get for killing nearly an entire bottle of whiskey—and proceeding to have more shots after.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says, carelessly. “Had a good night, at least.”

Ian nods. He takes a sip of his own coffee, following Mickey as he heads towards the balcony. 

“Wanna sit outside again?” Mickey asks from over his shoulder. “Looks like another nice night.”

“Sure,” Ian replies. 

He realizes that he’s being uncharacteristically quiet, but he’s trying desperately to choose his words carefully. Which, apparently, is not one of his strong points.

How the fuck is he supposed to approach this? 

Should he bring it up right away, or make shitty small talk, first? 

“You get home okay last night?” Mickey asks.

Okay, small talk it is.

“Sort of,” Ian says. “I woke up in my brother’s guest room. Which generally means that I fucked up, somehow.”

Mickey chuckles, nods his head.

There’s something awkward settling between them, and it makes Ian’s stomach churn uneasily.

Things have been so easy—Ian hates that it suddenly feels so different, now.

They sit across from each other at Mickey’s small patio table, and Mickey makes a fist as he rests his head against his hand.

Ian sips at his coffee, and focuses on picking at the label on his water bottle. 

And, yeah, it must be painfully obvious that something isn’t quite right. 

“You okay, or—?” Mickey asks after a few moments of silence. “You look like someone kicked your dog, man. It’s still the opening weekend of your lounge, which ain’t a bad thing, right? So, the fuck’s up with you?”

Ian looks up at Mickey. He hesitates, thinks about _running away,_ and then he sighs in defeat.

“Shit, okay. I have to tell you something.”

Mickey just stares at him, looking puzzled. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for Ian to continue.

“I went down to the lounge a little while ago, just to check on things, you know? After Kev opened for the night,” Ian begins. “And while I was down there, Ryan came looking for you again.”

Mickey’s face falls instantly, and he straightens up in his seat. “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

Ian shakes his head.

“Jesus _Christ_. I knew he’d be hangin’ around, but two nights in a fuckin’ row? He still there?”

“No,” Ian answers, quickly. “But he said he was coming back—”

“You know what? I _will_ throw his ass out next time he steps foot in this place. I ain’t dealin’ with this shit,” Mickey says, angrily. “I’ll just fuckin’ text him. Threaten him if I fuckin’ have to.”

Mickey pulls out his phone, and Ian isn’t thinking when he reaches across the table to grab for his wrist. He knocks Mickey’s phone out of his hand in the process, and Ian pulls back like his skin is on fire, when he realizes what he did.

“What—the fuck was that?” Mickey asks, his eyes narrowed. When Ian remains quiet, Mickey adds, “You fuckin’ hear me, Gallagher? The hell you do that for?”

“Don’t text him,” Ian says, hastily. “I got into it with him, okay? He started saying all this shit about how he’d keep coming back, to prove his _love_ for you or whatever the fuck. He was acting so entitled—”

“What did you do?” Mickey interrupts. “You fuckin’ punch him or something? ‘Cause, at this point, serves him fuckin’ right.”

“No,” Ian says, frowning. 

Mickey stares at him, holds up his hands like he’s waiting for a further explanation. 

“The fuck did you do, Gallagher?”

Ian stands up from his chair and runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath as he says, “I told him you were my boyfriend.”

He instantly takes several steps back, right as the words leave his mouth, like he’s fully expecting Mickey to lunge for him.

Instead, Mickey just fucking _stares_ at him. 

Arguably, it feels even worse. 

“I—I didn’t think about it. I just said the first thing I could think of to make an ex back down, and—”

Ian trails off, groaning as he paces nervously, back and forth across the balcony. He’s doing the whole justification thing again, which somehow always seems to sound better in his head. 

Mickey, still staring at him, finally shouts, “Are you outta your fuckin’ _mind_ , Gallagher? How the fuck did you even come up with something like that?”

“ _Jesus_ , I don’t know, okay? I wasn’t thinking,” Ian explains, struggling to defend himself. “I wasn’t thinking at all. I just wanted him to get out of my fucking face, and he kept acting like he was better than me—”

“That’s ‘cause he’s a fuckin’ dick, Ian! This is _what he does._ How is this gonna get any better for you, when he finds out you fuckin’ lied? You realize that makes you look fuckin’ weird, right?”

Okay, Ian hadn’t even thought about that. 

How fucking humiliating is it going to be for Ian, to look Ryan in the face and tell him that he lied about being Mickey’s boyfriend?

“He may be a fuckin’ dick, but he’s got friends in high fuckin’ places,” Mickey adds. “They’ll make you into a joke, especially around here.”

Ian starts to get an incredibly piercing headache, and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with his fading hangover. 

“I don’t know what the fuck to tell you,” Mickey says, standing up from his chair. “Tell him I broke up with you, if you need an excuse. At least it’s better than admitting to a weird fuckin’ lie.”

“Wait. How is that any less humiliating for me?”

“You either got your ass dumped _or_ you lied about havin’ a boyfriend,” Mickey points out. “Which option sounds less embarrassing? Sorry, man—you got yourself into this shit.”

Ian wants to bash his head against a wall. 

Mickey is right. 

And Ian is lucky that he took it as well as he did, period. At least getting _fake-dumped_ by Mickey leaves him on the same level as Ryan, rather than buried beneath thirty feet of dirt.

“I’ll go with the _getting dumped_ thing,” Ian decides, grudgingly. “Just, in case it gets brought up to you, or whatever.”

Mickey nods. He looks surprisingly sympathetic, but Ian’s desire to continue socializing is waning quickly. No matter how he looks at this, it’s still exceptionally fucking embarrassing.

Not even because of whatever the fuck Ryan may think, but because of _Mickey._

Because here’s Ian Gallagher, newly wealthy businessman, admitting to his tenant—who he _maybe has a crush on—_ that he told his ex-boyfriend that they’re fucking dating.

Mickey is clearly taking some form of mercy on him, but no matter how Ian looks at it, it’s still absolutely mortifying.

It probably goes without saying that Ian has a thing for him, because who the fuck lies about something like that if they aren’t at least _sort of_ okay with the idea of dating the person on the other end of the lie? 

Pathetic is probably a good word for it, too.

And yeah, Ian is pathetic, especially when it comes to dating. And love. 

And relationships in general.

He can’t get that shit right; he can’t even make it happen for himself, to the point of needing to _lie_ about it to a complete stranger.

Details aside, Ian feels like he’s curling in on himself, the way a fucking hedgehog rolls into ball when it’s stressed out or scared. 

Ian is both.

“I’m gonna head out,” Ian says. “Gotta stop downstairs and make an appearance, since I sort of fucked that up last night, too.”

It’s funny, the way Ian feels like he’s actually getting dumped. Or, at the very least, rejected. 

There’s an unpleasant ache in his stomach, as his mind begins to race.

What a spectacular and innovative way to fuck up a new friendship. 

“Sorry for making shit weird,” Ian says, quietly.

Mickey’s face is unreadable, and Ian really just needs to get the fuck out of there. 

He makes it half-way from the balcony through the loft, before Mickey catches up to him, setting a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

Ian turns around, and Mickey’s expression looks an awful lot like pity. And pity is the very _last_ thing that Ian wants or needs right now.

“Ian, listen,” he begins. “I’m not fuckin’ mad about it. Just—I can fight my own battles, y’know? I don’t need anyone doin’ that shit for me.”

“I wasn’t trying to fight your battles,” Ian explains, sounding far more defensive than he actually intended. “I know you can handle yourself. This wasn’t like that.”

And, no. It really wasn’t. At all.

Mickey must sense Ian’s discomfort, as he drops the subject without another word. He rubs his thumb across the corner of his mouth, and nods his head like it's meant to be a vague goodbye.

Ian takes it as his opportunity to get the hell out.

* * *

For most of the evening, Ian sits at the bar, keeping to himself as he takes everything in. He’s not very talkative, and he’s certainly not drinking tonight—opting for water and eventually switching things up with an exciting bottle of Coke. 

It’s been busy, so there isn’t much time for chatting, anyway. 

Tonight, Dylan is cooking up food orders in the kitchen, while Kev remains behind the bar serving drinks. Nessa and Sandy are switching on and off between bar service and waiting tables. 

V is mostly overseeing everything, and Ian continues to be impressed by how smoothly things are running. 

If he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself, he’d probably be having a lot of fun. 

There’s a lull in service as tonight’s band begins to play, and Sandy steps back behind the bar counter to catch her breath. 

“Another night of insane tips,” Sandy says with a smile. “I never made this kind of money at my last job. Plus, don’t tell the boss man, but I’m actually having _fun.”_

Ian chuckles at that, turning to wink at her. 

“It’ll be our little secret.”

His face falls quickly, and Sandy pouts her lips after another moment of looking at him. 

“What’s got you so gloomy, _Boss Man?_ ” 

Ian really needs to get better at pretending, but faking his emotions has never been a strong-point of his. He just never really figured out that whole _poker face_ thing.

“It’s—a really long story,” Ian says.

And, well. It’s not really that long. But it’s complicated, at least in Ian’s mind. 

He also just doesn’t feel like talking about it.

Plus, he’s fully expecting Ryan to walk through the door at any moment, and Ian isn’t completely certain that he’s going to handle the situation appropriately. 

But he _needs_ to handle it.

It’s going to absolutely drive him crazy to continue dragging this shit out. 

Like a band-aid, he just wants to rip it the fuck off.

“You’re always so mysterious,” Sandy says. “But, fine. Suit yourself.”

She moves on to chat with Kev, and Ian continues to dwell on absolutely everything brewing negatively within his brain.

* * *

Another hour goes by, rather uneventfully. 

A second band begins to play by about eleven o’clock, and they seem to be very well received. Most customers have congregated towards the front of the lounge to watch them, with just a few scattered people remaining near the bar. 

Ian decides to stay until midnight. He’s about to move to one of the lounge’s comfier chairs when Kev walks over and pulls him aside.

“That dude you were arguing with earlier—” Kev begins, quietly but just loud enough for Ian to hear over the music. “That him?” Kev points towards the door and adds, “He just walked in with a few of his buddies.”

And, yeah. Sure as shit, Kev is right.

Absolutely fucking terrific.

Ian had at least some momentum to deal with this when he came back down three hours ago, but now that Ryan is actually _here,_ Ian would rather be fucking anywhere else. 

Ryan heads directly for Ian, and Ian has to take a deep breath to compose himself. Just seeing him makes his blood boil, and he still thinks it’d be worth it to knock him the fuck out.

Except, he’s here with two friends—who may or may not be cops—walking on either side of him. 

Because, apparently he needs two fucking bodyguards to handle an anticipated confrontation. And, if it wasn’t enough to get him arrested, Ian would knock them the fuck out, too.

“Hi, Ian,” Ryan says as he approaches him.

Ian, once again with no poker face, stares at him with an eyebrow raised. 

“Are we on a first name basis?” Ian asks. “Can I do something for you?”

“No, just here for the music,” Ryan says with a shrug, although there’s something condescending apparent within his tone.

“The music?” Ian repeats, rolling his eyes. “If you’re going to lie, you could at least try to make it believable.”

Which, okay. 

Pot calling kettle black, and all that shit. 

“Yeah, the music,” Ryan says again, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s interesting, though.”

Ian doesn’t want to entertain this further, but now that Ryan is back in his face, he can’t even fucking fathom the idea of letting him think that Mickey broke up with him _._

Ryan doesn’t deserve that kind of satisfaction.

 _“What’s_ interesting?” Ian asks.

“You being here alone,” Ryan says casually, with a shrug. “I mean, with your boyfriend living upstairs, you’d think that he’d maybe be down here—supporting you?”

“Funny how you say that like it concerns you,” Ian says. “Like you keep conveniently forgetting that you mean nothing to him.”

Ian sees Ryan get visibly angry at his words, and he can’t help but feel the tiniest bit of triumph, even as he continues to dig himself deeper and deeper beneath the fucking ground.

“It’s like I told you earlier,” Ryan begins, collecting himself enough to offer Ian a cocky grin. “You’re not his type. That must suck, you know? I just—feel so _sorry_ for you.”

Hypothetical Brain-Ian wakes up again, and thoroughly attempts to beat real Ian with a bat inside his head—to absolutely no avail.

Because, no fucking way is Ian about to yield to this bullshit. It’s enough that he has to fight back the urge to _shove_ Ryan into a table, which just about depletes him of his tolerance and self control.

“And, like I told _you—”_ Ian steps closer to Ryan, glancing briefly at both of his friends. “—That sure isn’t what he’s been telling me. Does that bother you, Ryan? Does it bother you that he just—wasn’t that into you?”

For the love of God. 

Shut up, Ian. Shut the fuck up, Ian. 

Ryan’s face is flushing red, a combination of both anger and embarrassment, as Ian struggles to keep his focus. 

He’s so busy staring daggers at Ryan, that he’s completely unaware of the crowd that they’ve attracted. 

Until he hears, “Well, well. What the fuck do we got goin’ on here?”

And, it’s Mickey. 

Of fucking course, it’s Mickey.

Ian is literally going to shove his foot down his own throat. This is about to be _so fucking bad._

Ryan backs down first, looking bewildered as he steps away from Ian. It seems that he’s not nearly as brave when Mickey is actually around.

“Ryan, when I tell you to fuckin’ beat it, that ain’t a suggestion,” Mickey says. 

One of Ryan’s friends asks, “Is that a threat?” as he moves forward.

“Calm down,” Mickey tells him, flippantly. He turns back to Ryan, and says, “If you insist on showin’ up here to annoy the shit out of everyone, can you at least leave me the fuck alone? There’s only so many ways I can fuckin’ say that _I don’t want you.”_

Oh, shit. 

Ryan’s reaction is priceless—beat red cheeks with his mouth slightly agape, like he’s _shocked,_ as if Mickey somehow hadn’t been clear enough before. 

“And, Jesus Christ, stop draggin’ Ian into our shit, okay?” Mickey adds. “That’s fuckin’ embarrassing.”

To be completely fair, Ian sort of planted himself _directly_ into Mickey and Ryan’s shit—not the other way around. 

But, he’s not about to point that out.

Meanwhile, Ryan is a fuming combination of anger and humiliation. He’s clearly at a loss for words, and Ian almost wants to laugh—until Ryan points to him and says, “So you’ll date _him_ but not me?”

And, well. Thanks a lot, asshole. 

Nothing like taking Ian the fuck down with him.

It’s evident now that Ian never told Ryan anything about getting _fake-dumped_ , because why would Ian ever make a situation easier for himself?

Mickey looks at Ian, and there’s a hint of confusion on his face for just a split second as Ian’s eyes widen. It’s quickly replaced with some form of realization, and something else in Mickey’s eyes that Ian doesn’t quite recognize.

And then, Mickey scowls at Ryan while moving uncomfortably close to Ian, side by side as he presses their shoulders together. 

“Doesn’t really seem like that’s your fuckin’ business, does it?” Mickey asks, promptly slipping an arm around Ian’s waist. 

Ian feels like his entire mind is misfiring as he tries to comprehend what the actual fuck is happening. Mickey squeezes at his side like he’s trying to discreetly get his attention, but the only thing Ian is currently aware of is the heavy pounding of his own heartbeat. 

Mickey squeezes again, this time using his thumb and index finger to pinch at the skin above Ian’s hip, just beneath the hem of his shirt. Ian’s body gives an involuntary jolt at the sensation.

“Right, Ian?” Mickey confirms, attempting to engage some form of acknowledgement. 

Which should be common fucking sense, really. 

Except that, apparently, Ian no longer remembers how to form words or thoughts. 

And then, Mickey taps him _again_ , this time swatting at his hip, and Ian’s mind finally snaps into gear—Mickey obviously wants him to play along.

Ian inhales sharply, pursing his lips as he tries to compose himself. He takes a leap of faith and wraps his arm around both of Mickey’s shoulders, instantly pulling him closer. 

_“Right,”_ Ian says, finally. He thinks for a second, then looks at Ryan as he adds, “It’s just—really hard for desperate guys to take no for an answer.”

Ian feels satisfied when Ryan scoffs at his comment, as he glares back and forth between them.

“You think he can give you more than I gave you?” Ryan asks Mickey, taunting, gesturing towards Ian. “You think he’s better than me?”

“I _know_ he’s better than you,” Mickey says, adamantly. “Fuck off, Ryan. I ain’t dealing with this shit anymore.”

Mickey really isn’t kidding. 

He grabs Ian by the hand and pulls him back towards the bar, and Ryan stares pitifully at the two of them until his friends convince him to walk away. They don’t leave completely; instead heading over to the stage as they disappear into the crowd watching the band.

As soon as they’re out of sight, Ian rips away from Mickey forcefully, like he’s pulling apart a magnet. He stares at him with a baffled expression, waiting for some kind— _any kind—_ of explanation. 

When no response comes, he asks, “Mickey, what the _fuck_ was that?” as he raises his arms in the air.

Mickey grabs for Ian’s wrists suddenly and pulls them down, giving him a warning glare. He uses his body to walk Ian backwards, crowding him up against the wall beside the bar. 

“Don’t be so fuckin’ dramatic,” Mickey says, keeping his voice down. “This shit was youridea, y'know.”

And, well. Kind of, but definitely not like this.

Ian sees one of Ryan’s friends return to the bar to order a drink, and their eyes meet over Mickey’s shoulder. He hates that they’re lurking around, and he hates even more that he feels like he has something to prove.

“You see him?” Mickey asks, glancing at the bar from the corner of his eye.

Ian nods before returning his full attention to Mickey, who very boldly just placed a hand on each side of Ian’s hips. 

“You wanna play a game, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, looking up into Ian’s eyes.

Ian takes a breath, trying to focus on anything other than Mickey’s hands. 

He really hopes that he doesn’t regret this.

After hesitating for another second, he asks, “What do you want me to do?”

Mickey smirks at him. Keeping his hands on Ian’s hips, he says, “Put your arms around my waist.”

And, okay. Ian does.

In the same moment, Ryan steps back into Ian’s view. He’s filled with an _overwhelming_ urge to make Ryan jealous, and he’s barely thinking as he tightens his grip, pulling Mickey in closer.

“Ryan’s back,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“You know what? Fuck it,” Mickey says, reaching for Ian’s collar. “Let’s piss him the fuck off.”

With that, Mickey pulls Ian down, slides both hands around the back of his neck, and brings their lips together. 

Ian practically _yelps_ into his mouth.

He’s caught so far fucking off guard that he can’t even bring himself to kiss back—until Mickey takes the liberty of slipping his tongue between Ian’s lips. He grazes his tongue across Ian’s in a deliberately provocative way that gets Ian’s head spinning, and Ian can’t think of a single coherent thought beyond his own impending arousal.

It’s fucking intoxicating; the way Mickey kisses with such unbridled enthusiasm. He kisses with intent, and he kisses for a reaction. His mouth tastes like mint toothpaste mixed with just a hint of cigarette smoke, and Ian feels dizzy.

There’s no doubt about it; Mickey wants to cause a fucking scene. 

And Ian, caught in the crossfire, feels like his entire world is unraveling. 

Say whatever the fuck you want about his poor choices, but this is by far the most gratifying mess that Ian has ever gotten himself into it. 

His belly is twisting in on itself as he starts to kiss back harder, sliding a hand up Mickey’s body to set on the back of his head. Mickey licks at Ian’s tongue, his nails scraping over the skin on Ian’s neck, as Ian’s heart continues to pound loudly within his ears.

He feels like a broken time-bomb; the way his resolve is rapidly ticking far beyond its limit. It’s like he’s a second away from snapping, and there’s still not a single, intelligent thought in his brain, except for how _badly_ he wants to lift Mickey up onto the fucking bar counter.

He’s not going to, but he _wants_ to.

Mickey makes a soft noise, and it makes Ian’s belly coil with _want_ , until Mickey very abruptly pulls back from his mouth.

And, Jesus Christ, Ian needs to remember how to fucking breathe. His eyes fly open to figure out what the fuck is happening, and maybe also why the fuck Mickey stopped. 

Mickey leans forward, body still pressed against him, mouth hovering over Ian’s ear as he whispers, “You still see them?”

Ian has to catch himself from saying something stupid, like, _“See who?”_ as he glances around the lounge. His cheeks begin to heat up when he notices that, although Ryan and his friends appear to be gone, their little show has effectively attracted _many_ sets of eyes.

“I—no, I think they’re gone,” Ian says, clearing his throat.

He’s still holding onto Mickey, when he feels Mickey poke him in the side.

“Well played, Gallagher,” Mickey says, a smug grin on his face. “You can let go, now.”

Ian does, instantly, dropping both arms down to his side. He turns to face the bar, face falling when he sees Kev, V, and Sandy all staring at him with blank expressions. 

Nessa walks back behind the bar with a tray of empty glasses, raising an eyebrow at Ian as she says, “Damn, Boss Man. Didn't know this was gonna be _that_ kinda place.”

“It’s _not_ that kind of place,” Ian says, defensively. “And did everyone just—collectively decide to call me that?”

“Not me,” Mickey says, far too casually as he hops onto a bar stool. Sandy slides a bottle of water across the counter, and he catches it as he says, “You’re too damn soft for that shit.”

Ian exhales, feeling like he's frozen in place as he remains standing against the wall. He glances between everyone, relieved to find that they’ve all started to move on to other topics.

Even Mickey is soon caught up in a completely unrelated discussion with Sandy, and it almost makes Ian wonder if he imagined the last fifteen minutes of his life.

He’s distracted and spaced out when Kev walks by and touches him on the shoulder, making Ian jump as he takes a moment to focus. Kev smiles as he hands him a bottle of water. 

“Drink this, man. You look like you’re gonna pass out,” Kev says. “What the hell is up with you tonight? Since when are you shoving your tongue down some dude’s throat in public?”

Ian unscrews the cap and chugs nearly half the bottle in one go, before taking a deep breath. He’s finally settling down, as he looks at Kev. 

“I guess since now,” Ian says. He gestures towards the door as he adds, “I’m gonna go out for some air. Thanks for the water.”

And then, Ian makes his way to the exit, without acknowledging anyone as he goes.

He needs to be somewhere else, entirely.

* * *

In retrospect, it’s possible that Ian didn’t handle any of this as smoothly as he should have.

But, out of everything that Ian imagined could have come from his unnecessary lie, making out with Mickey in the lounge wasn’t even remotely on his radar as a possibility. 

Thankfully, Ian absolutely does _not_ have a big, fat, all-consuming crush on Mickey, and it’s certainly not becoming exacerbated by the fact that Mickey just kissed the fuck out of him to the point of leaving him breathless in a packed room full of people.

And he absolutely fucking refuses to admit that he wants to do it again. 

And again. And _again,_ one more time, preferably with Mickey underneath him.

Nope, he’s not thinking about any of that.

He’s trying to wrap his mind around it, while at the same time fighting to convince himself that it meant nothing—because it didn’t, at _least not to Mickey._

And Ian is definitely _not_ completely fixated on the feeling of Mickey’s lips, or the way his hands felt against his skin. He’s not thinking about the butterflies fluttering dramatically around his stomach, or the rapid beating of his heart.

This is so incredibly fucking stupid, really. 

Like, even for Ian, this pretty much takes the stupidity cake.

He can already hear Lip’s voice in his head, reminding Ian for the seventeenth time that _Mickey is his tenant,_ and he shouldn’t be getting himself further involved in this bullshit.

But, he’s not. He’s not getting involved. 

He’s done with that, now. 

They kissed, they put on a show, they managed to make Ryan and his friends leave without further confrontation, and that’s at least something. 

Plus, it sort of worked out for everyone, because Ian never got caught in his lie, and Mickey was able to sufficiently piss Ryan off. 

The hardest part, undoubtedly, is how poorly Ian seems to be handling the entire situation. He’s overthinking every second, wishing he had done things differently. He wishes he had touched Mickey differently, or kissed him with more enthusiasm. He probably wasn’t convincing enough, because he was too fucking stunned to actually kiss back the way he wanted to. 

Not that he wishes he could have impressed Mickey, because it’s not like that, either. But. Ian considers himself to be a fairly good kisser, and if he had done that shit _right,_ maybe Mickey would have been left wanting more.

Like Ian, right now, as he sits on the curb outside of his own lounge, stuck somewhere between feeling sorry for himself and also vaguely wanting to get laid.

He half-considers finding another bar somewhere along the strip, where he could try to dust off his very rusty charm in an attempt to pick up some nameless guy for a meaningless fuck.

But, he knows himself. He’s way too far off his game to score _anything_ tonight, with his typical charisma currently nonexistent at best.

There’s not too many ways to sugarcoat it—Mickey Milkovich has him acting like an absolute fucking fool.

* * *

With lack of a better option, Ian ends up at a twenty-four hour diner just a few blocks away from his building. He’s reading through the midnight menu, nursing a hot cup of coffee, passing an occasional glance at his phone. 

He texted Lip with the full expectation of getting lectured, but it seems that his older brother is already asleep. 

Ian thinks that’s maybe a good thing.

But when his phone lights up a few minutes later, he’s certainly not expecting Mickey’s name to pop up in his notifications. 

**_Mickey:_ ** _You never came back… you okay?_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Did you go home?_

Ian stares at the texts, rereads them several times, and finds that he really just doesn’t know what to say. 

Or if he should say anything, period.

Maybe this is the part where Ian needs to cut things off and start acting like a professional—a building owner, a business owner, and not just a twenty-four year old without a clue, desperately trying to find himself.

A twenty-four year old who really just wants a friend, but somehow keeps fucking it up with _feelings_ that he never wanted to begin with.

Regardless of everything, he needs to stop. 

No more friendly chatting, no more feeding into a crush, no more anything. 

But, just as he’s about to tuck his phone into his pocket, he notices someone approaching the table. He looks up, expecting to place his order—only to find Mickey walking towards him with a tentative smile on his face.

“This your idea of hide ‘n seek?” Mickey says, teasing, as he comes to a stop beside the booth. He adds, “Some girl at the lounge said you mentioned grabbin’ a late night meal.”

And, yeah. He did, but he definitely wasn’t expecting Mickey to show up looking for him.

The girl had come out for a smoke while Ian was sitting on the curb, and it came up in passing conversation. How that info managed to get passed on to Mickey, Ian really has no idea.

“If that’s the case, you cheated,” Ian says.

Mickey shrugs, and they just sort of look at each other for a moment. It’s uncomfortable, but Mickey obviously came here for a reason. 

“Can I sit?” Mickey finally asks.

Ian nods, and Mickey sits down across from him.

“So,” Mickey begins, awkwardly. “Listen, man. I think I took shit a little too far, and—guess I owe you an apology.”

Ian meets Mickey’s eyes from across the table, desperately hoping that his racing thoughts aren’t written all over his face.

“I don’t want you to be pissed at me,” Mickey admits. “I just—shoulda asked first, before pushin’ you into all that shit.”

Ian sighs. He really doesn’t want an apology. 

Especially considering the fact that Ian _started_ all of this.

“I’m not pissed at you,” Ian says. “I just wasn’t expecting it. You left me a little bit—“

Ian trails off. Confused, breathless, stunned, and aroused are all fitting options, to name a few.

Despite the many accurate ways in which Ian could end that statement, he finds that he really isn’t eager to dive into those specifics. 

Mickey’s expression remains firmly apologetic. 

“I get why you lied to Ryan,” Mickey says. “He’s a fuckin’ bitch—ain’t got a respectable bone in his body. He comes around runnin’ his mouth, and it’s like. You just say whatever the fuck you can think of to wipe that shitbag grin off his face.”

“That’s _exactly_ why I did it,” Ian agrees. “I wasn’t about to give him a fucking ego boost by telling him that you dumped me.”

Plus, he’s a fucking tool, but Mickey already knows that.

Mickey’s smile widens, and Ian starts to feel it again; that pleasant, fluttery feeling that he’s so desperately trying to _get away from._

“You’re fuckin’ stubborn,” Mickey tells him, chuckling. “But—that’s kinda why I thought you’d be down to pull that shit off with me.”

“I was _,”_ Ian admits. “I was down with it,” he clarifies, then says, “I just wasn’t ready for it, and I didn’t know how the fuck to respond.”

“You responded _fine,”_ Mickey says. “Wasn’t lookin’ for a fuckin’ Oscar performance. You just had to touch me and move your fuckin’ mouth.”

Ian’s cheeks heat up as he starts to laugh, because Mickey just has that way about him, whether Ian likes it or not. 

Whether Ian is willing to admit it, or not.

And, he makes a good point. It’s not like kissing requires an enormous level of effort or skill. 

Although, Mickey is pretty damn good at it.

“So,” Ian raises an eyebrow, leaning forward on the table. “Are you saying that my kissing performance wasn’t Oscar-worthy?”

Mickey makes a face like he’s thinking, and then says, “Wouldn't _you_ like to know?”

A waitress returns to the table before Ian has a chance to respond, but their eyes meet as they place their orders.

And, from the way Mickey is smiling at him, Ian thinks that maybe he already knows the answer. 

* * *

Ian is making his way through a plate of nachos, while Mickey enthusiastically finishes off a cheeseburger. 

After spending the entirety of the day hungover, there’s just something about greasy diner food that hits the spot. Their table is littered with several empty appetizer plates, and Ian feels pleasantly satisfied.

Maybe the night didn’t end quite how Ian had expected. Maybe he didn’t end up solemnly finishing his coffee, only to head home and crawl into bed. Despite fully intending on wallowing in his own misery, this option is proving to be much more enjoyable. 

And so, instead of opting to take a professional landlord approach—which he was _so_ close to doing—he’s scarfing down junk food with Mickey at a diner in the middle of the night. 

He’s also having _fun._

Late night adventures with Mickey, whether drunk or sober, are sort of becoming one of Ian’s new favorite things. And Ian finds that he’s really not willing to give that up, in favor of professionalism. 

Because, fuck that. 

He imagines that his lecture from Lip will be that much worse, once he learns that Ian ended up spending the rest of the night with Mickey at a diner around the corner—after making out with him just a few hours prior. 

But, fucking sue him. Ian didn’t know Mickey was going to come looking for him. 

That’s the thing about Mickey, though. He’s a little bit hard to figure out, and he continues to surprise Ian in unusual ways. 

At a glance, he seems closed off and rough around the edges, but Ian is realizing that there’s a lot more to him than meets the eye.

“So,” Mickey says, sitting back in the booth. He takes a sip of his soda and hiccups, looking up at Ian with a smile. “We’re cool, right? No hard feelings or any shit like that?”

“None,” Ian confirms. 

“Good,” Mickey says. “Ryan already fucked up enough of my life. Don’t need him messin’ with anything else.”

Mickey means his life _in general_ , Ian knows. 

But, the fact that Ian is even sort of included in that still counts for something. 

Ian thinks for a second, tries to come up with something clever, and says, “I know this isn’t my business, but—what the hell is it about _you_ that Ryan can’t get over?”

And Mickey, of course, very dramatically raises his middle finger. 

“The fuck you mean? Try _everything_ about me.”

Sometimes, Ian really can’t tell if they’re flirting or not.

It would be in his best interest to stop thinking of everything in terms of his _I want a boyfriend_ brain, but he likes the rapport that they’ve developed, and he likes the way it makes him feel. 

And, he kind of wants to push it further, just to see what happens. 

“What an ego,” Ian tsks, pretending to focus intently on his milkshake. 

“Y’know, it's more the fact that he’s never been turned down, I think.”

Ian looks up, curiously. He wasn’t really expecting a genuine answer.

“He’s got all that money, but I don’t give a shit about that. He can’t stand that I didn’t fuckin’ like him the way he wanted,” Mickey says, musing over his thoughts. “I knew we’d piss him off with the kiss, ‘cause I never did that sappy shit with him.”

“You never kissed him?” Ian asks.

Mickey scrunches up his face in disgust and says, _“Fuck_ no,” like it’s the most absurd question he’s ever heard. 

Ian raises his eyebrows as he asks, “You just—what? Don’t kiss people?” 

“Nah, man,” Mickey says with a shrug. “You don’t count, ‘cause we did that shit for an audience.”

Well, that’s an interesting outlook. 

It’s really not Ian’s place to dig for a further explanation. Mickey hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with the details of his romantic—or sexual—history. 

And he has absolutely _no reason_ to be.

Maybe Mickey really just isn’t into kissing.

Which is ironic, considering how fucking badly Ian wants to kiss him again. 

Right now. 

Even though he’s not supposed to be thinking about that shit. 

Mickey is intriguing, though, and Ian can’t really help it. 

And so, although it’s not intentional, it’s also not really a surprise when Ian starts to get flirty, now that he’s feeling a bit more comfortable. 

It happens naturally, as Mickey starts to draw it out of him; the way Ian sort of just automatically turns on his charm when he’s trying to impress someone, or when he’s trying to get something.

Which is the whole damn problem, isn’t it?

Ian can’t just _get_ Mickey. 

It seems that nobody can. He’s hard to figure out, and he’s nearly impossible to read. Most of the time, Ian can’t decide if he’s flirting or just fucking talking, and it’s kind of infuriating. 

But, also kind of exhilarating. 

Mickey is enticing without meaning to be, and Ian just can’t seem to snap the fuck out of it. 

With their misunderstandings behind them, Ian has regained some confidence. Because, whether Mickey is doing this shit on purpose or not, Ian is into it. Really fucking into it.

And so, right now, Ian feels like flirting.

“Well, as far as _kissing for an audience_ goes, you were pretty convincing,” Ian says. 

He takes a sip of his milkshake, smiling just slightly around the straw.

“Oh, no. I was _very_ convincing,” Mickey corrects him. “So convincing that Sandy even texted me and asked when I started bangin’ you.”

Ian chokes on his milkshake, sputtering as he grabs a napkin to wipe across his mouth. 

The universe is really, really testing Ian’s willpower. He feels like Mickey is dangling himself like bait in front of him, while Ian struggles to maintain his restraint with an ongoing mantra of _he’s your tenant, the kiss was fake, get the fuck over him._

But, God, Ian doesn’t want to get over him. 

Ian just wants him, period.

He feels like a fucking child, getting smacked on the back of the hand for trying to steal a candy bar that he promised he wouldn’t eat. What do children do when they can’t get what they want? 

When Ian was a kid, he used to start screaming. 

He wonders how far that would get him, in this scenario. Probably not very.

Instead of confessing his arbitrary attraction, Ian settles on asking, _“Mickey,_ what the fuck is wrong with you?” as he reaches across the table and whacks at his forearm.

It’s a far more acceptable response.

“Relax, Gallagher,” Mickey says, calmly. “I just told her we fucked last night, ‘cause I wanted to see if she’d believe me.”

Mickey pulls out his phone, swipes a few times, and then shows Ian a screen of text messages between Sandy and himself. 

**_Sandy:_ ** _so ur banging him then?_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _None of your business bitch_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _But yeah... we fucked last night_

 **_Sandy:_ ** _MICKEY_

 **_Sandy:_ ** _WHY DIDN’T U TELL ME_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _You didn’t ask until now?_

Mickey doesn’t scroll down further than that, clicking off the phone screen and shoving it back into his pocket. 

“Point is, people believed us,” Mickey says. “Made me think—what if we kept it up for a while?”

Ian blinks at him. 

“Kept _what_ up for a while?”

“This fake boyfriend bullshit that you pulled outta your ass,” Mickey clarifies. “Could do it for another week, in case Ryan or his friends come around again.”

Ian laughs, sort of scoffs at the same time, and gives Mickey a skeptical look.

“That’s a joke, right?”

Mickey looks serious as ever.

“No joke. Kind of a win-win, ain’t it?”

Ian’s palms start to feel sweaty as he thinks about what it would actually mean, if he chose to say yes. A win-win? Yeah, maybe. It would keep Ryan at a distance, benefiting Mickey, while also continuing to spare Ian any embarrassing fallout from his incessant word vomit.

That doesn’t exactly make it a _good_ idea, though.

In fact, it’s still a horrible idea, now matter how you try to rationalize it, and he really needs to say no. He needs to say no, and he needs to move on.

He refuses to get himself tangled up further into this mess.

Which is exactly why he’s going to politely decline. He’s going to politely decline, and they can both go on their separate fucking ways without turning this shitshow into an even worse batshit crazy fucking circus.

“What d’you say, Gallagher?” Mickey asks.

The answer is no, obviously. 

Fuck no. Absolutely not. 

And yet, somehow, Ian remains silent. 

Like instead of declining, he’s actually considering it.

Mickey is looking at him with a playful gleam in his eye, and something about it seems like a challenge.

Ian feels like he can’t say no.

If Ian says no, he’s not just backing down—he’s also fucking up his own reputation. It would be like coming right out and admitting that he made a bad decision. 

Or worse, admitting that he can’t pull this off. 

Which is total bullshit.

Because he absolutely _can_ pull this off. 

So, Ian decides to take a chance.

He stands up, walks over to Mickey’s side of the booth, and scoots in beside him. 

Mickey stares at him, face screwed up with confusion as Ian pulls out his phone. He opens the camera app, holding the phone out at the perfect selfie angle, and just as he’s about to take a picture, he swiftly turns his face to capture Mickey’s lips in an unexpected kiss. 

With their lips pressed together, and Ian’s heartbeat quickening at the contact, he snaps the photo.

It’s far from being the most pleasant kiss that Ian has ever shared. It’s chaste and to the point, but it tastes something like a chocolate milkshake combined with soda and an array of greasy food.

Still, Ian doesn’t hate it.

Once it’s taken, he pulls back from Mickey’s mouth with a dramatic smacking sound, and the moment ends just as abruptly as it began.

And, holy shit. He really just fucking did that.

He looks down at his phone to examine the photo, and it’s _cute._ Like, really fucking cute.

They look good together.

Ian offers Mickey a coy smile as he airdrops the photo to his phone. He watches Mickey accept the request, and Ian doesn’t miss the pink tinge of his cheeks as he inspects the photo for himself. 

Mickey remains silent when Ian stands up, staring at him with a dazed sort of look on his face.

If Ian didn’t know better, he'd dare to say that Mickey seems a bit flustered.

“Send it to everyone,” Ian says. “Game on, Mick.”

Mickey glances between Ian and his phone screen, a smile slowly spreading across his face. 

He sits back in the booth, smirks up at Ian, and repeats, “Game on, Gallagher.”

* * *

There’s no denying it—the fastest and most efficient way to cause an uproar about something, is to post about it on the internet. 

And so, when Ian posts the photo on Instagram the next afternoon, captioned, _“Sweet like a milkshake,”_ his phone almost instantly starts buzzing with questions.

The photo, with Ian’s lips planted firmly on Mickey’s, creates a cascading whirlwind of rumor-fueled gossip. 

Mickey posts it on his Instagram, too, certain that Ryan and his friends will see it. He uses the same caption.

Their late-night diner date ended shortly after the photo was taken, and by the time Ian finally nestled into bed beneath his covers, it was nearly 4 a.m.

By midday on Sunday, once word is out and Ian is finally awake, Lip’s inevitable phone call follows shortly thereafter.

From start to finish, Ian explains everything, repeatedly reminding Lip that, “ _It’s okay, because it’s all fake.”_

Which is true, mostly. They’re not actually dating, and Mickey isn’t actually his boyfriend. 

Unsurprisingly, Lip is acting as if Ian doesn’t realize that.

“Yeah, except—your feelings for him _aren’t_ fake,” Lip reminds him. His disapproval is evident as he says, “You’re heading down a slippery slope, man.”

Wrong. There is no fucking slope.

And there are _barely_ any feelings. 

Attraction, sure. But feelings? Not _really._

Lip may be right about a lot of things, but he’s wrong about this.

Ian’s interest in Mickey is superficial at most, and it really isn’t the big fucking deal that Lip seems to think it is. 

If Ian is going to pull off a scam, he needs to make it believable. It’s easier to make something believable, if Ian actually enjoys what he’s doing. 

And, yeah. Ian enjoys Mickey, in a friendly sense.

His attraction to Mickey means nothing, though, and it’s a minor blip in the details. It doesn’t really _change_ anything, and it doesn’t really impact anything, either.

Ultimately, it’s just not worth addressing.

Ian can enjoy flirting and kissing in a friendly sense, especially now that there’s a purpose attached to it.

It’s not about having a _crush—_ it’s about putting on a show. 

He’s still craving a connection, but he’s okay with it being a platonic one, for the time being. 

Besides, if Ian ever intends on finding a _real_ boyfriend, he needs to let it happen organically. 

Which means _not_ judging every man in his life in terms of boyfriend potential.

Not even Mickey.

Although, Ian must admit; the fake dating thing definitely adds a certain level of flare to their budding friendship. 

The kissing doesn’t hurt, either.

But, whether Ian likes kissing Mickey or not, it’s not like they’re going to make it a regular thing.

 _Kissing for an audience,_ as Mickey put it, is all they really need to do in order to sell this shit. 

But, only sometimes _._

Nobody is going to be judging their (fake) relationship based on how frequently or infrequently they’re kissing in public—and it’s not like anyone would feel the need to question whether or not they’re _actually_ kissing behind closed doors.

Because, really, that’s just fucking weird. 

Plus, Mickey doesn’t like kissing, anyway.

They can be just as convincing with quick pecks on the cheek and hand holding, which is incredibly different than whatever the hell Mickey initiated last night.

That kiss had purely been for shock value, and it served its purpose well. 

Sure, maybe it left Ian a little bit breathless.

And, yeah, maybe he couldn’t get the feeling of Mickey’s lips out of his mind. 

That’s just how shit goes sometimes.

But, since Mickey caught Ian off guard with a rather impromptu make out session, Ian really couldn’t resist doing the same to him, once the opportunity presented itself.

The diner kiss definitely fell under the category of Ian’s more spontaneous life choices. 

Maybe he wanted to prove something—like the fact that he’s not going down for this shit, and he’s not about to make a fool of himself, more than he already has. 

And, well. Maybe he felt like he needed to take back a little bit of power, too.

With a rather extensive sexual history, Ian always managed to maintain a fair amount of appeal. 

There was a time that Ian could get absolutely _anyone_ that he set his eyes on, but it was always just sex. No depth, no connection, just sex.

And it was easier, somehow, when that was the only thing that Ian was looking for.

It’s not what he wants anymore, though. 

He still has _some_ sex appeal, probably, but it feels so much fucking harder, now that he really just wants someone to like him. For him.

And not just for his body.

So, for some reason, it felt good to throw Mickey off with a kiss. It felt good to see the confused look on Mickey’s face, and the tinted blush to his cheeks. 

It even felt a little bit like leveling the playing field, to prove that he can still work his charm.

If they’re really friends, and if they’re really going to do this, it also seems like the ideal opportunity to work on perfecting some of that magic. 

It should be more than enough to convince everyone around them. 

And—not that he’s trying—but he wonders if it might even be enough to convince Mickey, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	4. Sweet fuckin’ dreams, Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey catches Ian off guard, and Ian continues to struggle.

Chapter 4

For Ian, being gay was never really much of a question. It always felt natural to him. 

He can’t exactly remember when he _knew;_ only that he feels like he kind of always did. 

There was never much concept of straight versus gay in the Gallagher household. Everything either just was or wasn’t, and even if nothing good came from their upbringing, that was something Ian always appreciated. 

Besides Justin Timberlake, Ian’s first real crush started to develop when he was about fourteen, despite being a late bloomer by most standards. 

Something about the dude just seemed to tick all of Ian’s boxes, and made Ian wonder.

He thought about him a lot.

Eventually, sometime after turning fifteen and ending up on the receiving end of a gawky bathroom blowjob, things fizzled out when it became clear that they weren’t exactly on the same page about things. 

Like, for example—when the guy showed up to class the following Monday with a girlfriend on his arm, kissing her in the cafeteria without paying Ian another glance.

But, you know. Minor setbacks, and shit.

For the most part, after that, Ian’s adolescent desires became much more fleeting. Instead of getting hung up on feelings, it was much more about finding out what he liked, what he didn’t like, what he wanted, and what he didn’t want at all. 

He never really found that _feeling_ again. 

Maybe he could have, with time. 

Or, maybe he didn’t really want to.

Nobody ever seemed to want that from him, as much as they wanted something physical.

It was better than nothing, though.

Or, at least he thought so.

His sexual encounters became frequent, unimportant, and nameless. 

And his thoughts; his fantasies and daydreams, never really had a face.

Straight through his teen years, up until his early twenties, it impacted him in ways that he hadn’t been willing to admit, at the time. 

Sex was for pleasure, attraction was transient, and feelings—well, feelings were a waste of emotional energy.

And a waste of time.

A lot has changed between then and now, to bring Ian to this point in his life.

Maybe it’s part of why he’s so conflicted when he thinks about what it means to be a boyfriend. Or, what it means to have a boyfriend.

Even a fake one.

And maybe it’s also why his world is so _rocked_ by the idea that he could even possibly feel something for Mickey, beyond just short-lived physical attraction. 

Beyond just maybe wanting to fuck and move on. 

It’s in the details; the little things that he never usually notices or cares about, that he suddenly can’t stop thinking about. 

There’s just something about Mickey.

Maybe it’s his soft, pink lips, and the way they feel against Ian’s mouth. Maybe it’s his strong arms, or the way his hands leave a spark against Ian’s skin. Maybe it’s his smile, or his bold fucking attitude, or—maybe it’s just Mickey.

It starts to get Ian’s head spinning, as he tries to focus on how much it’s _not_ a big deal. 

And how much he refuses to let it be a big deal. 

Except, now, when he falls asleep at night, he’s thinking about Mickey. In so many different ways, he’s thinking about Mickey. 

He’s thinking about spending time with him.

He’s thinking about their conversations.

He’s thinking about kissing him. 

He’s thinking about fucking him; like what it would be like, and if Mickey would be into it. 

And it makes him wonder.

For the first time in years, there’s a face attached to his fantasies. And for the first time in years, he’s not even just thinking about sex, anymore.

He’s thinking about _liking_ someone _._

He’s thinking about being with someone. 

He’s thinking about how, somehow, it feels different.

Mostly, he’s thinking that he should probably call the entire fake dating charade off; make up an excuse and _end it_ , before he gets hurt.

But he knows he’s not going to do that. 

Without thinking about it at all, he knows he’s absolutely not going to do that.

* * *

After a fast-paced opening weekend of chaos, kisses, and panic, the following week passes by in an almost anticlimactic fashion.

The lounge continues to bring in a fair amount of business between Sunday and Thursday, although much slower than opening weekend had been, as anticipated. They’re gearing up for another busy weekend, with V amping up advertisements by highlighting drink specials and continuing an extended happy hour.

Unsurprisingly, at least in Ian’s more immediate circle, the novelty of Rhythm Recall hits the back burner quickly; in favor of focusing much more on _Ian’s new boyfriend._

It’s likely because Ian never does the boyfriend thing, that his family seems so intrigued. Debbie thinks Mickey is “pretty cool,” Carl thinks he’s a badass, and Lip—well, while Lip seems to be keeping mum on his personal opinions, Ian mostly already knows where Lip stands.

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Lip tells Ian privately, when he and Ian meet up for dinner one night. “He seems like a fine guy. I’m not about to blow your cover, or anything. Just, make sure you know what you’re getting into, okay?”

Yes, Lip. Okay. The conversation is beginning to feel repetitive.

It’s kind of Lip’s job to question Ian’s life choices, but Ian is still going to do whatever the fuck he wants, in the end. 

And, really, that’s just Ian being Ian. 

Fiona is probably the most shocked, and maybe the most nosy, when she calls Ian up for details. 

Ian has never been the most forthcoming with his family. His private life, in terms of relationship history, has really never been a topic of discussion. 

They know enough to know that Ian has never actually had a boyfriend, but not too much beyond that. Ian has always preferred it that way.

But, he’s twenty-four now, and of course, the question of finding a _real relationship_ begins to pop up more. 

Which is ironic, for an entirely different reason.

Although, Ian continues to feel like he’s completely clueless when it comes to all of this shit, most of the time, and he still has no idea what the hell he’s even looking for. 

At least, if nothing else, he’s trying to figure it out.

Fiona tries to hide her burning interest, when Ian talks to her on the phone midweek. She sidesteps the topic with small talk; tells him about how Liam finished the school year at the top of his class. A good five minutes pass by before she even mentions Mickey, at all. 

“So, are you ever gonna tell me about this Mickey guy?” Fiona asks, a bit of lighthearted humor in her tone. “Or—do I have to keep pretendin’ like I don’t care?”

Ian smiles. He was waiting for it.

“I know you care,” Ian says. “Appreciate that, by the way. What do you wanna know?”

“Just tell me about him! What’s he like?”

It’s a little bit awkward, really. He’s not about to wax poetic over Mickey, even for the sake of appearances, because it feels _weird._

Sure, he likes him, but he’s also trying to keep that shit under control—while doing his best to convince everyone else that he _actually_ likes him, enough to be his boyfriend. 

Jesus, Ian has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

Ian settles on, “He’s great. He’s about to open a tattoo shop, so we have all that business shit in common, right now.”

It’s a good answer. It’s not shallow, while somehow managing to be completely honest. 

Good job, Ian.

“Lip says he's your tenant, though?” Fiona asks, confirming. “Could that get complicated?”

Ian sighs. It would be fantastic if everyone would shut the fuck up about the tenant thing.

“You gonna be on my ass about that now, too?” Ian asks. “It’s not a big deal, Fiona.”

Because it’s really _not_. 

It’s also not anyone else’s problem.

“I’m not on your ass,” Fiona says. “And that’s the last time I bring it up, okay?”

“Mhm,” Ian mumbles.

Yeah, right. He doesn’t believe that. 

This is fucking Fiona, after all.

“He’s cute, Ian. I’m happy for you,” she says. “I’d really love to meet him, eventually.”

The subject change is a relief, but it leaves a weird feeling in the pit of Ian’s stomach. He wants to say something about how _it seems a little soon for that,_ but he ultimately decides against it. 

Unless Fiona plans on coming home from New Orleans anytime soon, the chances of that happening are nearly nonexistent, anyway.

* * *

As the week rolls on, Ian really doesn’t have to do much acting, at all. He and Mickey are busy with their own separate ventures, and Ian is thankful for that, mostly. 

Mickey has several new clients booked, starting on Thursday night and continuing on through the weekend, and it’s become his main focus over the last few days. 

Ian supposes that it’s at least _slightly_ possible that they’re avoiding each other a little bit, too. 

Not on purpose, of course. 

Besides playing it up on social media—by dropping the Instagram photo like a fucking bomb—their in-person interactions really haven’t changed. 

In fact, Ian would dare to argue that they've actually seen less of each other, compared to their near constant contact over the last month. 

As a result, Ian has had absolutely no chance to work any form of _charm_ on Mickey, and his confidence from the previous weekend is fading fast. 

Except, with the way things are going, it doesn’t seem like they’ll need to keep the lie going for too much longer, anyway. 

Ryan hasn’t even been around since Saturday night, and Ian is pretty certain that by the time the weekend rolls around, they’ll be calling it quits and agreeing on some sort of _mutual breakup_ explanation. 

It’ll seem extraordinarily short-lived to everyone around them, but it’s not completely unheard of for a new couple to opt for the friendship route, instead.

It’s probably for the best, too.

Because, well.

Ian’s feelings on the matter aren’t exactly consistent; darting back and forth between a harmless scheme and something else entirely.

After several days of nothing more than passing pleasantries, Ian decides that they really need to talk about a game plan, even if they choose to call things off.

And, maybe he sort of just wants to hang out with Mickey again, too. He knows that he’s been busy, but the timing isn’t exactly ideal. It can’t be just a coincidence that they’ve barely seen each other for the entirety of the week, so far.

Which kind of sucks, because Ian doesn’t _want_ Mickey to avoid him.

Or maybe, possibly, Ian needs to stop being so fucking paranoid. Maybe, possibly, he needs to get over himself and send Mickey a text.

Come Thursday afternoon, that’s exactly what he does. He tries to play it off, nonchalant and carefree; the exact opposite of how he feels. 

**_Ian:_ ** _Hi boyfriend_

 **_Ian:_ ** _As far as a first week of dating goes, I’ve never felt more single_

Forty-five minutes later, Ian tries again—

 **_Ian:_ ** _You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?_

God. He hopes it’s not overkill, but he’s really just trying to be funny, and he can’t think of a better way to break the ice.

Another hour goes by, before Mickey finally responds. And if Ian nearly trips when he hears his phone vibrate, at least nobody is around to prove that shit. 

**_Mickey:_ ** _What the fuck is wrong with you_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Nvm don’t answer that_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Sorry I’ve been so busy this week. You can come by the shop if you’re free_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _My first appointment isn’t until 6ish_

That’s good enough for Ian. 

**_Ian:_ ** _Don’t be sorry. I’m busy too_

It sounds a little bit pathetic, when Ian reads it back—like he’s trying to convince Mickey that he isn’t just waiting around to hear from him all day. 

Which he really isn’t. 

**_Ian:_ ** _I’ll be over soon_

He steps through his apartment door as his phone vibrates again, and it’s pretty self explanatory—

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Okay but bring tacos_

Sure, okay. That’s fair.

Ian can definitely handle a quick taco detour. 

* * *

While they work their way through a value pack of tacos, neither of them say a word about the fake boyfriend debacle. Like most of the week, it almost feels as if it’s not happening at all.

It’s funny; the way they keep falling back into this song and dance of _ignoring it._

Instead, Mickey talks about his shop opening, and tells Ian about the three appointments he has lined up for the evening.

“First is some fuckin’ college kid, then I got one of Sandy’s friends, and the last dude found me through your bar,” Mickey explains, between mouthfuls.

There are signs up around the lounge now, with information about Mickey’s shop. He’s doing bookings by phone and internet, and so far, it’s picking up rather quickly. 

He spent much of the week getting everything up to speed—all of that boring, behind the scenes shit that nobody actually cares about. 

True to his word, Ian installed a door at the bottom of the staircase, to be kept locked between appointments if Mickey chooses. 

While clients are waiting, they’re more than welcome to hang out in the lounge until Mickey is ready for them. 

For the most part, their hours are overlapping, and Mickey can obviously be as flexible as he chooses, depending on what works best for him.

Mickey seems excited, and Ian can tell it’s something that he’s genuinely passionate about. 

“So,” Mickey begins, pausing briefly. “What d’you got goin’ on tonight?”

Ian thinks about it. 

He doesn’t really have anything going on, besides going downstairs to help out wherever he’s needed, and maybe watching whatever artist is performing. He still hasn’t performed at all, and isn’t scheduled to do so until next week. 

“Mostly—nothing,” Ian ends up saying.

“I can come down after my last appointment,” Mickey suggests. “Ain’t exactly been sellin’ that whole _boyfriend_ thing.”

Fucking thank you. 

Ian is so glad that Mickey brought it up first.

“Right,” Ian agrees. “Speaking of that. Do you—wanna keep doing it, or?”

“Or what?” Mickey asks, almost like he’s surprised by the question.

“I really don’t know,” Ian says with a shrug.

Because he doesn’t. 

He still knows nothing, about anything. 

After a beat, Ian adds, more specifically, “Ryan hasn’t come back at all, so—”

The question hangs in the air between them, almost like neither of them are willing to make the final decision. 

“No reason to keep it up then, right?” Mickey says, although it seems to fall somewhere between a statement and a question. 

“Right,” Ian repeats. “So, what? Do we just tell people that we broke up?”

As soon as he says it out loud, he sort of hates himself for making the suggestion. 

But, the more Ian looks at Mickey, the more he becomes certain that he cannot possibly pull this off. He _likes_ him, and he’s starting to like him way too much. 

He can’t fake-date a guy that he legitimately likes. Although, he wants to.

And there’s a part of him—that stupid fucking _boyfriend_ brain—that really just wants to see how far he can take this.

Which is a bad idea. It’s a horrible idea, actually.

Wake the fuck up, Ian.

No matter how hard he tries to fight it, he just can't shake the feeling. And now, as an added bonus—he can’t stop thinking about kissing him.

There’s inconvenient and then there’s full blown fucking calamity. 

He tried to keep this shit at bay all week, and he _thought_ he managed to get it under control—but now, here’s Mickey sitting in front of him, wearing slim fit jeans and a pale blue tank top, and Ian is struggling. 

In fact, he’s struggling _so much_ that he wants to throw a goddamn tantrum over it, because Mickey looks incredible and _it’s not fucking fair_.

“Don’t really gotta tell anyone anything, do we?” Mickey asks with a shrug. “Ain’t really their business. But, if someone asks, we can say we decided to be friends.”

Yeah, that works for Ian. 

It’s so simple. And so logical. 

What a concept.

If he manages to make it through the night without anyone asking him about Mickey, that would be a fucking miracle.

* * *

Ian heads down to the lounge shortly after, leaving Mickey to his evening of appointments. 

He plays a riveting game of Pac-man while sipping on a Coke, and he’s _bored_.

Tonight, Nessa and Dylan are opening, with Sandy staggered for a few hours later. Kev and V took the night off, although Ian wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up to hang out, anyway. 

The lounge is quiet to start, and Ian figures that a Thursday night could go either way. 

Once Pac-man loses its appeal, he makes his way over to the bar and watches as customers begin to trickle in. Nessa hands him a shot of whiskey with a wink, and he accepts it as he nods his thanks. 

“Only one tonight,” Ian says with a smile.

He means it, too.

It’s not enough to make him feel much; just a pleasant warmth trickling through his body, but it’s better than nothing. 

Ian really doesn’t make a habit out of drinking hard liquor. A few shots on occasion, and a few mixed drinks when he’s in the mood. He tends to stick to beer more than anything else, if he’s going to drink at all. 

“Where’s that boyfriend of yours?” Nessa asks after downing a shot for herself. “We haven’t seen much of you two this week.”

Ian knew he wouldn’t be able to make it through the night without somebody asking. He’s surprised he even made it nearly forty-five minutes, actually.

Except, he realizes that he has no idea what to say. What the hell did they even agree on? Just that they decided to be friends?

After an unreasonable amount of hesitation, Ian says, “It’s complicated—we’re sort of just doing the friend thing, for now.”

She looks a bit stunned, before her face falls. 

“Damn, really? You guys seemed so into each other,” Nessa says. “Sorry, dude.”

Ian offers a thin smile, swirling his straw around his glass, while the world’s tiniest violin plays a sad tune within his mind.

He decides to let Mickey know that the word is out, so they’re at least on the same page.

 **_Ian:_ ** _Nessa asked about you. I told her we decided to just be friends_

And, ouch. It hurts to type out the words.

Which is so _stupid,_ because they were never actually more than just friends to begin with.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Tell Nessa to mind her fuckin business_

Ian smiles, laughing quietly under his breath.

 **_Ian:_ ** _How’s it going up there?_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Actually great_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Sandy’s friend just got here so I’ll text you later_

Sandy walks through the lounge door a few minutes later, and Ian assumes that she and her friend must have driven together. 

“Hey, Boss Man,” Sandy says. “Newly single, huh?”

Ian raises an eyebrow. Considering that _just_ happened, Mickey must have told her right when he received the text about it.

“What did he tell you?” Ian asks, curiously.

Sandy smiles, but she waves Ian over to the gaming section, out of earshot from Nessa and Dylan.

“I know you guys were faking it,” Sandy says, quietly. “I get why you did it—I know how Ryan is. But it’s for the best. You guys don’t want to get caught up in that kind of lie.”

Ian frowns. 

Shows how much Sandy knows. Ian most certainly _did_ want to get caught up in that kind of lie.

* * *

Tonight could have played out in an endless number of different ways, really. 

Ian didn’t have any specific expectations.

However, he definitely did _not_ expect to spend the evening getting hit on, multiple times, by three different men—before the clock even reaches 10 p.m.

Now, the third man is hovering next to Ian at the bar, asking—for the second time—if he can buy him a drink. 

To which, Ian has already politely declined.

This is the kind of scenario that Ian found himself in often, during the prime of his stripping days. 

Except, he almost never used to decline _anything_.

He thinks it’s probably a good thing; the fact that he no longer recognizes himself in those memories. 

It isn’t a mindset that he cares to revisit. 

Regardless, he isn’t especially interested in the idea of casual sex, right now. It wouldn’t kill him to accept a single drink, or even just to mingle a little bit. But—he doesn’t fucking want to. 

Plus, he doesn’t need anyone buying him a drink, when he owns the damn place. It’s not like he's broadcasting it or anything, but it’s still kind of funny; to have unsuspecting customers offering him drinks in his own bar.

This guy’s name is Kyle. 

And, Ian really doesn’t care. 

After turning down two previous men and declining both of Kyle’s drink offers, Ian’s desire to socialize is draining quickly.

Kyle is still sort of just talking to him, and Ian is _really_ trying to be polite. 

Although, he’s also not listening.

Maybe it was Dylan’s proclamation of, _“Let’s get you laid!”_ that gained way too much attention from eager men around the lounge, desperately looking for something that Ian is no longer willing to offer.

Maybe, probably, some of them watched him make out with Mickey last weekend, too. 

He wonders if that could have been enough to give people the wrong idea about him.

Ian will absolutely not be going home with Kyle or anyone else tonight, but if Kyle wants to talk his ear off while Ian smiles and nods along, that’s fine. 

He really has nothing better to do.

Sandy catches his eye as she walks by, giving him a knowing look, but she does nothing to help him deter Kyle’s advances.

“You really have that whole hard to get thing going on,” Kyle comments. “It’s working for you, you know.”

No, Ian doesn’t know. 

Ian isn’t playing hard to get—he’s literally just _standing there,_ wishing that Kyle, and everyone else, could take a goddamn hint. 

Part of being professional means encouraging customers to stay and purchase more drinks, although Ian really just wants to tell this dude to get a fucking clue.

And then, Kyle inches closer to Ian, voice dropping down as he says, “I can show you a good time, Ian. So much better than your guy from last week.”

Ian visibly cringes, then, stepping away from him and holding out his arm to keep him from coming closer. 

He was right about that, then. 

People really think he’s ready to get with any guy that so much as looks in his direction, and that’s the very last fucking reputation that Ian wants around here.

Also, fuck that.

Fuck the fact that Ian can’t kiss someone in public without men coming out of the fucking shadows, trying to get something from him. 

Even in his own fucking lounge.

“Listen—whatever the fuck you think you know about me, you’re wrong,” Ian snaps, shoving at Kyle’s chest.

It’s just the slightest pressure, but Kyle still wavers, and Ian needs to cool it before he does something that gets him into trouble.

“I’m wrong? Oh, please. I know your type too well,” Kyle says. “You don’t pull a stunt like you did last week unless you want attention.”

Honestly, Ian is really about to punch him. 

He never did _anything_ for attention.

Mickey initiated it, and even Mickey was just trying to piss off his insufferable fucking ex. 

He didn’t do it for attention, either. 

At the rate things are going, Ian might just end up banning all gay people from the lounge.

People will surely think it’s homophobic, but maybe Ian can put up a sign that very clearly explains otherwise. Maybe something like—

_I’M GAY and I’m not homophobic_

_But I can’t fucking stand any of you_

_And I don’t need an assault charge or lawsuit after just a week of business_

**_NO GAYS ALLOWED_ **

Ian is so fucking caught up in his own frustration that he doesn’t notice Mickey, until he’s standing right beside him. 

Because, somehow, Mickey keeps showing up to catch Ian in every almost-fight that he gets into. 

“What’s his type?” Mickey asks, calmly, looking at Kyle. “You said you know his type too well, so—tell us. What kinda guy d’you think he is?”

Kyle stares at Mickey, and it’s more than clear that he doesn’t know how to answer. After another second, he says, “Oh, shit. You’re the guy from last week.”

“The guy from last—” Mickey starts to repeat him but trails off, huffing out a laugh. “Fuck’s sake, you piece of shit. I’m his fuckin’ _boyfriend_. Get the fuck outta here.”

Ian’s jaw drops, and he just fucking stares at the two of them, until Kyle mumbles something unintelligible under his breath and finally walks away.

“By the fuckin’ way, his type is _too good for you,”_ Mickey yells after him, over the music. 

Ian grabs Mickey’s shoulders and turns him so they’re facing each other, but Mickey just shrugs and starts _laughing,_ and—now Ian is fucking laughing, too.

“I can’t believe you just fucking did that,” Ian says. _“Jesus,_ Mickey. When the hell did you even get here?”

“I walked in right about when you shoved him,” Mickey says. “Every time I step foot in this place you’re in a fuckin’ fight with some gay dude.”

Ian laughs again, but he rolls his eyes, because—well, yeah. That’s because every single gay guy that takes an interest in the lounge is a fucking asshole. 

He’s still considering implementing the _NO GAYS ALLOWED_ rule, but the jury is still out.

It wouldn’t include himself or Mickey, of course. 

“Well, I wouldn’t have to fight _any_ gay dudes if they’d stop being so fucking irritating,” Ian argues, adamantly.

Mickey is looking at him with an amused look on his face, and Ian feels himself start to loosen up as he meets his eyes. Mickey smiles at him.

“You include yourself in that?” 

Ian raises an eyebrow, shaking his head as he says, “I’m the exception.”

“The exception, huh?” Mickey teases. “Yeah, I bet you like to think you’re not fuckin’ irritating.”

“I’m less irritating than _you_ are,” Ian quips back.

It hits Ian square in the chest that Mickey really just threw the boyfriend lie back on the table, with the sole purpose of getting Ian out of a shitty guy situation. And, he fucking defended him.

Mickey says, “Yeah, bitch, you fuckin’ wish,” before reaching down and _grabbing Ian’s hand_ with no warning.He laces their fingers together and pulls Ian away from the bar, over to an empty table where it’s much less crowded.

Ian’s heart feels like it’s in his throat, and he needs to fucking _chill._

He literally just spent hours accepting that their very brief fake boyfriend agreement had run its course, and now—what the fuck is even happening, now?

“You don’t gotta put up with shit like that, you know,” Mickey says, releasing Ian’s hand as he sits down on one of the stools. “This is your fuckin’ place, man. You tell people you’re the owner and to get the fuck out, and most will listen.”

“I’m trying to be personable and shit,” Ian says, weakly, as he sits across from him. “You didn’t have to do that, by the way.”

“I know,” Mickey says with a nod. “Don’t know why I did. I guess I just— _said the first thing I could think of.”_

Mickey’s grin widens, and Ian realizes that he’s _mocking_ him. Those exact words had been Ian’s piss-poor excuse for blurting out the boyfriend thing out to Ryan in the first place.

Ian might make stupid choices, sometimes, but at least he _admits_ to making stupid choices. 

He decides to make another one. 

“So. Are we ‘ _fake boyfriends’_ again?” Ian asks, forming air quotes with his fingers. 

His stomach is in knots, but his voice doesn’t waver. It’s a mind-blowing performance on Ian’s part; as he continues to pretend like he doesn’t want to push Mickey down onto a couch and get the fuck on top of him. 

“Yeah, guess so. ‘Cause your dramatic ass can’t stay out of fuckin’ trouble,” Mickey says. 

Honestly, Mickey has no idea how fucking accurate that statement is. 

Again, at least Ian isn’t denying it. 

* * *

The greatest thing about resuming the fake boyfriend thing is the fact that Ian gets to spend the rest of the night feeding into his incredibly inappropriate feelings, until he can’t think about anything else.

And it’s perfectly acceptable.

After confusing the bartenders with his very inconsistent dating status, everyone seems to have settled on the notion that Ian and Mickey are, once again, more than just friends. 

Mickey even kisses Ian on the cheek at one point, before heading to the bar to grab a drink.

And, fuck. It’s so simple but it’s so _much_ at the same time. Ian’s cheeks heat up at the gentle touch of Mickey’s lips, and it makes Ian’s head spin. He wants to grab Mickey and kiss him hard on the mouth, and he wants to keep kissing him until he can’t fucking think straight.

He has to keep reminding himself, over and over again, that this is _fake._

But, it really doesn’t matter.

Fake or not, Ian feels so incredibly _smitten,_ like he’s at the complete and total mercy of his rising infatuation, and every time Mickey smiles at him or brushes against him, Ian feels like he’s going to melt.

He’s starting to manage it well, at least on the outside, and it feels good. There’s a familiar ease between them as their conversations flow well past midnight, and it’s just—refreshing.

Ian’s never had someone take this kind of interest in him, beyond physical attraction. He’s never had someone willing to just sit down and talk to him for hours, about nothing and everything at the same time.

They even skim across the surface of Ian’s stripping days, just a little bit; enough for Mickey to understand why pushy guys like Kyle leave Ian feeling edgy and rattled. 

Mickey doesn’t linger on the subject for long, but says, “You don’t gotta be ashamed of that shit, y’know,” before switching gears entirely, challenging Ian to an air hockey tournament.

Ian wins three rounds in a row, and Mickey insists that he’s a _fuckin’_ _cheater._

* * *

By two o’clock, Ian is having a quick smoke, sitting on the outdoor patio of a bar a few blocks away from their building. 

He tosses the cigarette to the ground after just a few puffs, stubbing it out with his foot. 

He obviously shouldn’t be smoking on the property, but that’s exactly why he does it _quickly._

Mickey returns with two beers after another few minutes. And, yes, maybe Ian _did_ end up having a few drinks throughout the night. 

He’s pacing himself and sticking to beer, and he isn’t feeling much more than a pleasant buzz.

“Y’know what I just realized?” Mickey asks, somewhat absently as he sits down. “I still gotta give you a fuckin’ tattoo.”

Ian swallows a mouthful of beer, and smiles at him. He rocks his head from side to side like he’s thinking. 

“Not sure about that. Should I _really_ trust you to repeatedly stab me with a needle?” Ian asks, like he’s pondering the pros and cons. Then, he says, “Honestly, though—I don’t know what I’d get.”

“You _should_ trust me. At least, a hell of a lot more than whatever sketchy fuckin’ bastard gave you that eagle,” Mickey says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. “Keep insulting my sixteen-year-old choices like you don’t have dumb fucking knuckle tattoos.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says with a shrug. “I ain’t lettin’ you pick what you want, anyway. Just gonna do it and you’ll find out after.”

Ian _laughs._ As if he’s about to let Mickey fucking tattoo him without even knowing what the tattoo would actually be, beforehand.

That’s fucking hilarious. 

“That is _not_ happening,” Ian says. 

He’s about to say something else when he sees Ryan step through the patio door, with several of his friends. His anxiety spikes instantly, but it appears as if they haven’t noticed that he and Mickey are there.

So, this must _actually_ be a coincidence.

Mickey must realize Ian’s shift in demeanor as he leans across the table and asks, “The fuck you just get all weird for?”

Ian leans forward and says, “No—Ryan’s here with his friends. I don’t think he knows we’re here.”

Mickey stands up quickly, turning around to glance in their direction. Then, he swiftly chugs down the rest of his beer, and nods for Ian to follow him. 

For a second, Ian has no idea what the fuck is about to happen. He imagines that they’re either about to get into a fight or start making out.

Or, for all Ian knows, maybe both. 

Regardless of the specifics, Ian is fully anticipating some form of theatrics.

To his surprise, Mickey walks in the opposite direction. He glances at Ian and grins as he hops over the decorative, black fencing that lines the perimeter of the patio. 

Ian follows behind him, finding himself stuck somewhere between surprise, relief, and—well, a little bit of disappointment. 

They manage to avoid Ryan’s path completely, obscured by the building and the enclosed overhang of its doorway.

Ian fully realizes that he shouldn’t be disappointed. It’s not like he’s looking for confrontation— _he’s not—_ it’s just that he really wants an excuse to kiss Mickey again, and he’s been fucking _waiting_ for it.

While, of course, also trying not to think about it.

He’s also absolutely fascinated by the fact that he’s apparently ready and willing to kiss Mickey at any moment, in _any_ situation, whether it’s in his own bar, a diner, or wherever the fuck else they end up together.

Like, come on Ian. Calm the fuck down.

“Guess you’re not looking for a fight tonight?” Ian asks, as he follows Mickey down the alley along the side of the building.

They make it to a small parking lot reserved for customers only, and Mickey smiles as he pulls out a cigarette. 

“Got a better idea,” Mickey says. He lights the cigarette and lets it hang from his mouth, as he zig-zags through several different vehicles before coming to a stop at a tricked out, red Ferrari. 

Ian is almost afraid to ask.

He watches as Mickey reaches deep into his pocket and pulls out his apartment key, flipping it around in his hand. 

“You think Ryan’s insurance will cover this?” Mickey asks with a chuckle, as he leans down and begins to etch the key into the shiny, red finish. 

Honestly, Ian has to admire Mickey’s attention to detail. His lettering is rather impressive. 

That’s probably a tattoo artist thing.

Ian keeps watch until Mickey is finished, and he stands up with a satisfied smirk. 

Spelled out across the side of the car are the words, _SNITCH BITCH_. 

“That’s what happens when you call up my fuckin’ dad and out me. Just ‘cause _I didn’t want your shitty fuckin’ ass!”_ Mickey yells out the last sentence, and Ian grabs frantically for his arm when he hears voices and footsteps approaching. 

Mickey stubs out the cigarette on the hood of the car, just as Ian says, “ _Fuck._ Mickey, go!” 

And then, they both fucking _run._

* * *

There’s a special kind of rush that comes with bolting from a crime of vandalism; the kind that Ian really hasn’t experienced since he was a kid. 

Ian is buzzing with adrenaline as he and Mickey start to slow down, finally pausing to catch their breath, a few blocks away. 

He leans back against a fence just as Mickey bursts into a fit of breathless laughter—which, of course, makes Ian laugh, too.

Mickey is smiling so fucking beautifully, and Ian feels flushed and breathless, for reasons that have nothing to do with running through the streets of Chicago.

“I can’t believe you just fucking did that,” Ian says, still trying to catch his breath. He brushes a hand back through the strands hair that have fallen into his face, as he asks, “You think he’s gonna call the cops?”

Mickey frowns, waving his hand dismissively.

“Fuck do I care if he calls the cops? There’s no proof,” Mickey says. “He’ll pay to get it fixed and then he’ll come back around, bitchin’ about it.”

Ian doesn’t point out the fact that, after not being bothered by Ryan for almost five full days, Mickey has most definitely stirred the pot in a very dramatic way.

“If he _does_ call the cops, I got an alibi,” Mickey says.

“Which is—what, exactly?” Ian asks.

“That I was at your place,” Mickey explains, casually. He steps closer to Ian, and reaches up to slide a hand across the neckline of his t-shirt. Their eyes meet, and Mickey smirks as he adds, “And, we were real fuckin’ busy all night, y’know?”

Ian’s entire brain goes foggy as he keeps his eyes locked on Mickey’s. He’s fairly certain that Mickey is just teasing him for effect, to playfully make a point, but it’s still _fucking_ with him.

And, fuck it. 

Ian is overdue to have a little bit of fun.

“Interesting,” he says, quietly. He tips his head slightly downward, enough for his breath to ghost over Mickey’s lips when he speaks. “What were we doing? Just—so I have my story straight.”

Mickey doesn’t move, but breaks their eye contact to glance at Ian's lips.

“Depends,” Mickey whispers. “What kinda shit would you wanna be doin’?”

Ian parts his lips, but hesitates. 

“Hm?” Mickey asks, coaxing him as their eyes meet again, like he’s giving Ian a nudge of encouragement.

Fuck, he’s fucking hot. 

Fuck, Ian needs to get his shit together. 

There are exactly two ways in which Ian could potentially choose to handle this. 

Option #1: Laugh it off and push Mickey away, playing the whole thing off like a big hilarious fucking joke. While crying on the inside.

Option #2: Give Mickey exactly what he’s asking for. Play along, and humor him. Tease him. Tell him what the fuck he’s into, and what the fuck he can’t stop thinking about. 

Because, quite fucking honestly, Ian would really, _really_ like to figure out if Mickey is bluffing—and then, decide what to do if there’s any possibility that he’s not _._

It’s no surprise that Ian has always had a serious problem with _Choose Your Own Adventure_ scenarios. He generally chooses the option that lands his character in horrible situations, far worse than when he had initially started.

Which is, of course, why Ian very suggestively leans in and whispers into Mickey’s ear, “I guess I’d be working hard—to figure out what exactly turns you on.”

Ian doesn’t miss it; the way Mickey’s shoulders tense up just slightly. Mickey turns his head to hover over Ian’s mouth, but their lips still don’t touch.

“Bet you wonder what you’d find,” Mickey says, dropping his voice down again. “You like thinkin’ ‘bout that shit, Gallagher?”

It’s an impulse, when Ian reaches down and grabs onto each side of Mickey’s hips. He’s hitting a fucking limit, and he’s _turned on_. 

Which is entirely Mickey’s fault.

Ian thinks that Mickey must fucking know—he fucking has to, because it’s written all over Ian’s face, and it has been all night. There’s no fucking way that he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“I might,” Ian says. He steps forward, walking Mickey backwards just a few steps, with his hands still on him. 

Mickey looks confused for a second, but then Ian is turning him by his hips, pushing him until his back hits the fence. He lets out an audible _uhnf_ at the light impact, and, yeah, Ian really likes the way that sounds. 

There’s a look on Mickey’s face that ignites a fire within Ian’s belly, but _just_ as he's about to make a move, a group of girls—too drunk to walk a straight line—come stumbling down the pathway, giggling and chatting loudly through slurred words.

Ian moves away from Mickey and turns to face them, and one of the girls at the very fucking least has the decency to pass him an apologetic glance. They really don’t bother them, but the moment is dead, as several more groups of friends follow along behind them.

Mickey glares at them, raising his voice as he says, “No better time for a drunken dumbass parade than three o’clock in the fuckin’ morning, huh?”

No better time, indeed. 

It’s not the way Ian wants to end his night, but _maybe_ it’s for the best.

Maybe. 

* * *

By the time Ian crawls into bed, nearly an hour after he and Mickey call it a night, he feels more wired than anything else. He stares at his bedroom ceiling, contemplating whether or not the universe is completely against him, or somehow attempting to do him a favor. 

Tonight was—something.

Unexpectedly, it felt like _something._

And that’s the thing about Mickey. He continues to surprise Ian. He continues to throw him off, with unexpected actions and words. 

It’s like Mickey spends hours suspending Ian somewhere within this platonic, casual friend zone—and _then,_ out of fucking nowhere, he throws him into a fucking cyclone of what Ian can only describe as _seductive confusion._

Ian was so close— _so fucking close—_ to making a move tonight. But Mickey _started_ it. It’s not like Ian imagined that shit. And Ian fucking hates the fact that they were interrupted, because he was about to fucking go for it.

_He was going to._

But, he couldn’t.

Which is a goddamn tragedy.

Instead, he’s back home in bed. Alone. Thinking about what the fuck may have happened, if Ian had started to kiss him.

He wonders what Mickey would have done, with Ian’s hands on his skin, or soft lips against his neck.

And, what the fuck happens now? 

Do they spend another week pretending it didn’t happen? Or— _did_ anything even happen? 

For all Ian fucking knows, he completely misinterpreted the entire thing.

As Ian continues his attempt at falling asleep, his phone vibrates from his nightstand, and he reaches over to pick it up, curiously.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _I’m thinking about something_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Something you said before_

Ian’s heart starts to pound faster, as he thinks back to their earlier conversations.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _About figuring out what turns me on_

After Ian takes a good two minutes to think of a sufficient response, he sends—

 **_Ian:_ ** _What exactly are you thinking?_

Within about twenty seconds, Mickey is calling him.

Ian takes a breath and answers, “Mickey?”

“I’m thinkin’ about whether you were serious or not,” Mickey says, voice sounding smooth and steady. 

Ian pauses, before asking, “That depends. Were you?”

It’s sort of a childish response, Ian knows. But he’s not about to humiliate himself without first trying to feel out Mickey’s intentions.

“Good question,” Mickey says, and Ian can practically hear him smiling. “Sounds like you got a few things to figure out, huh?”

There is no way this isn’t flirting.

There is _no fucking way_ that Mickey isn’t coming onto him right now.

_Right?_

“Guess I do,” Ian says, stupidly. 

Mickey laughs, just sort of huffs into the phone, and says, “Hope you have some sweet fuckin’ dreams, Gallagher,” before ending the call.

With the way things are going, Mickey _really_ doesn’t have to worry about that.

Because, right now, _sweet fucking dreams_ are pretty much the only action that Ian can actually count on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	5. Don't fuckin' flatter yourself, Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian’s world gets rocked by fake dates, french fries, and real kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Hello, friends. 
> 
> It’s been nearly four weeks since I updated this fic, and although you aren’t here for my life story—let me offer you a bit of insight into the short version of why.
> 
> Initially, I went through a rough patch of writer’s block associated with a negative mental health episode. I managed to write about half of this chapter in tiny, daily increments. And then, things were starting to feel better.
> 
> On August 30th, I was certain that I’d be posting this chapter by the night of the 31st. I even posted about it on Tumblr!
> 
> Instead, I proceeded to break my foot several hours later.
> 
> I’m doing fine, and again, I’m not here to bore you with the details. It took some extra time for me to get settled enough to finish this, but—it’s over 17k, so I really do hope you love it, and that it was worth the wait!
> 
> I would really appreciate your feedback on this chapter in particular. I packed a lot into it, and I also would like to know if you guys enjoy the longer chapters, or if you’d rather I split them into two. 
> 
> I love you all! Thank you for understanding, and for being so patient!

Chapter 5 - 

For the record, to nobody’s surprise, Ian does dream about Mickey.

Not that he’s about to admit it, or anything.

But, Mickey’s proclamation of, _“Hope you have some sweet fuckin’ dreams, Gallagher,”_ hangs heavily on Ian’s brain as he falls asleep, into the early hours of Friday morning.

And, so—yeah. He does.

The dreams are nonspecific and unclear, but still unmistakably Mickey. There’s a lot of kissing, a lot of touching, a lot of tasting. There’s Mickey whispering, _“I want you,”_ into Ian’s mouth, until it’s too much, sending him crashing through wave after wave of really, _really_ good feeling. 

But then, Ian wakes up. 

His body feels pleasantly satisfied, until his brain catches up enough to remind him that he’s alone.

He’s alone, and he _also_ needs to wash his fucking bed-sheets, because he’s apparently having wet dreams like a fucking twelve-year-old, now.

It’s entirely possible that he’s reached the point of dreaming about sex, because he hasn’t fucking had it (with another person) in months. 

Or, more likely, it’s because Mickey is fucking with his head.

After dragging his comforter and sheets to the washing machine, he takes a brisk and refreshing shower, while pointedly _not_ thinking about banging Mickey against the cool tile that lines the wall of the bathtub. 

Or, not even just Mickey. But _anyone._

He’s not thinking about banging _anyone._

Ian doesn’t even fucking like sex.

Okay, fine. That’s a lie. 

And, on second thought; maybe Ian really needs to suck it up and consider getting laid.

Because, clearly, this shit isn’t working for him.

* * *

While Ian brews a pot of coffee, because he’s a _real_ _adult_ and real adults occasionally brew their own coffee at home, he stares at his phone, struggling to come up with a smooth way to initiate a conversation.

He types and deletes several texts, while he attempts to get the wording right.

_What would you say if I told you I had a dream about you last night?_

_I really can’t stop thinking about you_

_You have no idea how much you’re making me want you_

_I’m driving myself crazy over this… can you please just tell me if you’re into me or not?_

No. Absolutely fucking not. Every single text message variation that Ian even considers makes him sound like a pathetic fool.

And, yes. He _is_ a pathetic fool, but Mickey doesn’t need to know that. 

At least, no more than he already does.

This shouldn’t be so fucking difficult.

Ian thinks there’s a lot of levels to it, though. It’s complicated. It’s not like when you just meet someone at a bar, or through a mutual friend. 

They’re tangled together in a very convoluted scenario, when considering something like a hookup. 

The wisest decision would be to let it go. 

He could easily find some douchebag like Kyle, spend a night fucking him, and move on.

It’s just that Ian wants more than that, now. 

Ian wants an actual boyfriend.

Except—he can’t have a _real boyfriend_ if he’s too busy fake dating Mickey. 

And, he wants to keep fake dating Mickey, because he actually likes him, and he wants an excuse to spend more time with him. While also maintaining a friendly, platonic relationship, due to the professional nature of their situation.

Way to keep things simple, Ian. 

Even when he first recognized the beginnings of his _crush_ —which is a stupid word, by the fucking way—at the time, it was still an off limit idea, which made it so much easier to deal with.

It was very much a _you can look but you can’t touch_ type of situation.

And, yeah. That was fine. Until it wasn’t. 

Talk about making shit as complicated as possible.

Mickey went from being _Ian’s attractive tenant_ to _Ian’s attractive tenant/friend/fake boyfriend,_ who Ian, maybe, sort of, is kind of developing real feelings for.

Jesus Christ, Ian doesn’t know what he’s doing.

While he’s typing and deleting texts, Mickey ends up texting him first, and Ian’s heart leaps into his throat when Mickey’s name pops up on the screen. 

He feels _caught,_ like Mickey must know that Ian has spent the last thirty minutes trying, and failing, to come up with a smooth opening line.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Hello boyfriend. Thinking about me?_

Fucking Mickey.

Fucking _flirt with him._ Again.

He’s fucking starting it. 

Fucking do something, Ian.

He thinks, types, and sends—

 **_Ian:_ ** _I woke up thinking about you_

Shit, okay. Well, that’s a start.

He regrets it almost instantly, but he can’t take it back now.

Mickey begins typing.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Oh yeah? About what exactly?_

That’s a dumb fucking question, and Ian isn’t about to give him the real answer.

 **_Ian:_ ** _Why should I tell you?_

 **_Ian:_ ** _Figure it out yourself_

Maybe that’s too aggressive.

Or too bratty.

You’d think Ian never flirted a day in his entire fucking life, from the way he’s handling this.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _You’re either being a dick on purpose or playing hard to get_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _But how does playing hard to get work when you’re already dating me?_

 **_Ian:_ ** _Not dating. Fake dating_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Live a little you fucking pussy_

Ian’s useless brain can’t come up with anything even remotely witty, and after two minutes of silence, Mickey sends another text.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Whatever bitch... I got a client now so I gotta go_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _See ya tonight tho_

Ian wants to punch himself in the face, as he sends one more, incredibly boring text—

 **_Ian:_ ** _See you later_

He has literally never been _more_ off his game, ever. His fleeting moments of bold confidence aren’t nearly enough to make something happen between them.

At least, definitely not like this.

* * *

Ian spends most of Friday afternoon continuing to _not_ think about Mickey, this time while paying bills and attempting to be productive.

He sets up a meeting with a financial advisor—after a fair amount of nagging from Lip—and begins to write up a complete list of expenses, assets, and projected monthly income.

It’s not exactly a fun afternoon activity. 

Generally speaking, Ian has been managing his money efficiently. Month-to-month, he’s paying for utilities and the rent of his own apartment, but the building itself is paid for. 

Separately, he’s fronting the money for the lounge, including general upkeep, liquor supply, employee paychecks—and, of course, compensation for performing artists.

Although V is handling the nitty gritty details, Ian is still ultimately in control of those finances, and he wants to be smart about it. 

Without a mortgage to worry about, incoming revenue from the lounge offsets his outgoing expenses by a landslide.

And that’s not even including Mickey’s monthly rent contribution. 

Still, it’s a lot for one person to manage. 

Especially someone like Ian, who’s never had even the slightest bit of experience with this kind of thing. 

Although he’s never been the greatest when it comes to taking someone else’s guidance, he figures that this is a situation in which it’s a necessity, if he wants to do it right.

Even better, he can tell Lip that he actually decided to take his advice about something, for a change. 

It may even be enough to take Lip’s focus off the subject of Mickey, at least for a little while.

* * *

Friday night sneaks up on Ian rather quickly.

His increasingly frequent late nights have him sleeping in more often, sometimes not waking up until noon, or even later on occasion. 

By the time he wakes up and manages to accomplish anything, it’s often late afternoon, or well into the evening. 

Today, it’s the latter, and the clock reads six-thirty before Ian even thinks about heading to the bar for the night.

He wants to look good, _for no reason in particular,_ and he settles on a tan v-neck, a black leather jacket, and a fitted pair of blue jeans. 

Tonight is expected to be busy, with a live DJ and another night of exclusive drink specials. Most of Ian’s siblings are planning on stopping by, and Ian already knows that Mickey is coming down, too.

Ian also wonders if Mickey’s stunt from last night will be enough to bring Ryan back around.

His mind is a million miles away as he enters the lounge, and he’s not expecting to find Mickey already there, sitting at the bar chatting with Sandy. 

Sandy nods in Ian’s direction, and Mickey turns to face him before he has a chance to even think. 

Mickey looks good, in that way that he _always_ looks good, although Ian wasn’t expecting anything different. He’s wearing the light wash jeans that Ian assumes must be his favorite pair—probably Ian’s favorite pair, too—and a navy blue crew neck topped off with an open plaid button-down. 

It’s unmistakable; the way Ian becomes instantly overwhelmed with warmth and good feelings. His heart races and his chest tightens, and his brain won’t shut the fuck up about _how good Mickey looks_ , no matter how hard he tries to derail the intrusive thoughts.

If Ian can’t keep his shit together, he’s never going to be able to play any of this off as believable. 

At the very least, he’s going to _try._

What would he do right now, if Mickey was actually his boyfriend? He’d probably walk right over to him, kiss him on the mouth, and say, _“I missed you,”_ without thinking twice about it. 

And so, despite the very anxious knot in his stomach, he decides to do just that.

Ian reaches Mickey just as Mickey steps down from the stool to face him, and because Ian’s completely fucking terrified of chickening out, he immediately grabs both sides of Mickey’s waist and pulls him in for a kiss, before he has a chance to overthink it. 

He doesn’t make it much of anything; just kisses him sweetly and pulls back after a few seconds, similar to their diner kiss from last week. 

Quick kiss or not, it still feels like something. 

And, well.

Ian really needs to figure out how to make that shit stop. Like, immediately. 

Mickey looks stunned, though, before he shakes it off and manages to smile. 

“I missed you today,” Ian says, fighting down his nerves. He tries his best to sound casual. “How did your appointments go?”

Ian hopes that his attempt to segue into a normal conversation can help keep things flowing comfortably, leaving no room for awkward moments of silence—especially considering the suggestive text messages that Mickey has been sending since last night.

Because, truthfully, Ian can’t decide how seriously he should be taking them.

And that’s the whole fucking problem.

“Missed you, too,” Mickey replies, and Ian doesn’t miss the amusement in his eyes. He adds, “Nothin’ exciting. ‘Cept your brother just told me he wants to get his kid’s footprints done.”

“Lip said that?” Ian asks, removing his hands from Mickey’s waist. 

He shrugs them into his pockets, suddenly feeling self-conscious as he glances around the lounge. He never considered the possibility that Lip and Mickey may, at some point, actually talk to each other without Ian being around.

Even just the idea of Lip interacting with Mickey instantly spikes Ian’s anxiety. 

“Mhm. I booked him for next week,” Mickey says. 

Ian is more than a little bit surprised, and part of him is _certain_ that Lip must have some kind of ulterior motive. 

Except—Lip knows they aren’t really together, and Mickey knows that Lip knows.

So, maybe, Ian just needs to fucking relax.

* * *

It isn’t as weird as Ian expected, to have both Lip and Mickey hanging out with him at the same time. They get along fine enough, and nothing about the fake boyfriend scenario has been brought up at all. Lip has made a few comments throughout the night, but nothing to make things weird.

At least, not until Mickey heads to the bar for another round of drinks. 

And, okay. Ian was definitely expecting it to come up at some point. 

It’s not exactly surprising, considering that Lip has been nagging Ian’s ass about this shit since he and Mickey started talking last month. 

So, now, Lip obviously feels like he was right.

Not to mention, Lip is having a very difficult time grasping the whole _fake_ aspect of this.

Ian figures that’s fair, since he himself is having some trouble with that part, too.

“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page,” Lip says. “You went from—friends, to fake boyfriends, to friends who just broke up, back to fake boyfriends?”

By now, Ian is scrolling through his phone. He’s had enough of this conversation, but as usual, Lip has not.

Ian glances up just long enough to offer Lip an irritated glare.

“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous,” Ian says, looking back down at his phone screen. 

“No, Ian, it doesn’t sound ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous,” Lip corrects him. “And whether you want to admit it or not, you are completely fucking into him.”

“I—may or may not think he’s attractive,” Ian says, probably trying way too hard to sound indifferent. “We’re just having some fun, fucking with his ex and shit.”

“Right, but for how long, exactly? Doesn’t Mickey realize that if he just let this shit go, Ryan would probably get bored and stop showing up here?”

“That’s not exactly Mickey’s style,” Ian says. “And, Ryan deserves to be fucked with. He pulled a dick move, and Mickey wants him to know that he didn’t break him. He wants him to know what he’s missing.”

“Seems to me like you want to _gain_ everything that Ryan’s missing,” Lip says, although he smiles this time, like he’s joking more than he’s judging.

Ian raises his middle finger in response, but chooses to keep his mouth shut. 

The subject gets effectively dropped after that, as Mickey rejoins their table with another pitcher of beer, and a Coke for Lip. 

“You know what I don’t fuckin’ understand?” Mickey asks, sitting down beside Ian. “How is it that I got your brother to schedule a tattoo with me before I could convince your whiny ass?” 

He rubs his hand up and down Ian’s arm as he says it, and Ian smiles, hoping that the darkened lighting of the lounge is enough to hide the blush spreading across his cheeks. 

It’s been happening for most of the night; these subtle touches of pseudo-affection. Ian would almost dare to say he’s getting used to it, if not for the goosebumps rising across his skin, under the gentle brush of Mickey’s hands.

“We’ll see how Lip’s goes,” Ian says with a shrug. “If he likes it, _maybe_ I’ll reconsider.”

“You better,” Mickey says. 

He refills Ian’s glass to the top, and then does the same with his own. 

Lip sips on his Coke with an eyebrow raised, as he looks across the table at the two of them.

Yes, okay. 

Ian already knows what Lip is thinking, and he really doesn’t need his prying stare as a reminder. 

So what if Ian is enjoying this? 

Is that really such a bad thing? 

As Mickey moves on to another topic entirely, Ian chugs back a generous amount of his beer, and continues to ignore Lip’s insinuating glances.

* * *

Although Ian really means it when he insists on not making a habit out of getting drunk, it tends to just happen, whether he’s planning on it or not.

Once or twice a week isn’t exactly unreasonable, and at least he gets drunk at the actual bar, this time—rather than upstairs on Mickey’s balcony.

Lip is long gone for the night, after telling Ian to _behave himself_ before heading on his way.

He’s done a decent job, so far. 

And it’s not like he’s _wasted_ or anything. He’s just drunk enough to feel it when he walks, and his guard is lowered a bit, which is arguably a great way to sell a fake relationship.

It’s also a great way to get into an argument.

Especially by the time Ryan walks in.

To make it even better, Ryan’s got fucking Kyle—pushy, dickbag Kyle from last night—stuck to his side like gross, sticky superglue.

Ian's level of intoxication is far beyond having a filter as he starts laughing, because this is fucking _hilarious_. Ryan spots him quickly and Ian’s smile widens, increasingly patronizing, as the two of them make their way towards him.

“Look at this,” Ian says, shaking his head disdainfully. “Wow—just, wow. Allow me to offer my very sincere congratulations.”

“Sincere?” Ryan scoffs. “Yeah, right. Where is he?”

Ian stares at Ryan, keeping his face stoic as he asks, “Where is who?” 

“ _Mickey,”_ Ryan hisses. “We have some business to settle.”

“Interesting,” Ian says, sipping absently at his beer. “If I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by.”

“Or, maybe you can just tell me,” Ryan says. “You wouldn’t happen to know how the words _‘SNITCH BITCH’_ ended up keyed into the side of my car, would you?”

Ian makes a thinking face, humming like he’s considering the question.

“Ferrari?” he asks. “Shiny, red finish?”

Ryan nods, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“Nope,” Ian says after a moment, making a popping sound with his lips at the end of the word. “Never seen a car like that in my life. Sounds like a douchebag car, though. Like, the guy driving it has some _serious_ shit to compensate for. Maybe a tragically small dick, or—”

“Okay, you can fuck off,” Ryan snaps.

“Oh, no. Did I upset you?” Ian asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. He turns to Kyle as he says, “Good luck with this one. You two really deserve each other.”

And he really, _really_ means it.

Ian sees Mickey approaching from behind Ryan and Kyle, then, and Mickey shoves roughly into Ryan’s shoulder as he passes him, coming to a stop at Ian’s side.

“Lookie who came back,” Mickey says. “The fuck you doin’ here again, Ryan? You got a thing for Ian, or what?”

“I most certainly do _not,”_ Ryan argues.

“You sure? ‘Cause I mean, I’ve seen you lookin’ at him. You sure you don’t see somethin’ you like?” 

Ian knows that isn’t even remotely true, but maybe that’s the point. 

“Hardly. Just trying to wrap my mind around the two of you. Still doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Why’s that? What is it about him?” Mickey asks. “Is it the fact that he’s tall? Or does it bother you that he’s fuckin’ hot?”

Objectively, Ian needs to not read too much into this. Mickey is rolling on a fucking tangent, with the very clear intention of shooting down Ryan’s superiority complex. 

But, also, Mickey calling him ‘fuckin’ hot’ is just—well, it’s _fucking hot,_ and Ian needs to maintain some kind of composure here, if he wants to make it through the rest of the night. 

On that note, he decides to keep his distance as the two of them continue their back and forth in the middle of the crowd, and quietly sneaks away in favor of a bathroom break. 

And another round of drinks.

The overall vibe of the lounge has become rather rowdy into the later hours of the night, if Ian had to come up with a good word to describe it. 

There’s more dancing, more drinking, more everything. It feels like a club, more than its typical laid-back atmosphere. Ian wonders if it’s the DJ’s music choices, or maybe there’s a full fucking moon, or _something_.

Who the fuck knows, really?

Case and point, when Ian enters one of the (unlocked) bathrooms and finds a man and a woman dangerously close to fucking over the sink.

First of all, it’s not a pleasant visual.

Second of all, he envies them, just a little bit.

“ _Jesus,”_ he groans, banging his fist against the door to get their attention. “Find a different place to fuck. And—lock the fucking door, next time.”

Ian exits quickly, slamming the door behind him. 

He doesn’t wait for them to exit, opting to use the second bathroom, instead. 

And it’s no surprise, really, when Ian returns just a few minutes later, to find the same two people making out against the wall, tucked away beside the Pac-man machine. 

They aren’t the only couple caught up in various levels of PDA, as Ian looks around the room. 

There are two women making out on one of the couches, along with a fair amount of provocative dancing—which, arguably, is starting to look like fucking with a few layers of fabric in between.

Ian isn’t about to be a hypocrite on the matter, but damn, something must be in the fucking air tonight. 

Good for them. All of them. Really, truly.

Ultimately, Ian settles on returning to the bar to grab two shots. He figures that Mickey deserves one, after whatever arguments he’s likely been battling over the last ten minutes.

“Two whiskey shots,” Ian says, smiling as Sandy slides them smoothly across the counter. 

As he squeezes his way back into the crowd, he finds Mickey right where he left him—still arguing with Ryan, and very dramatically talking with his hands.

Ian approaches just in time to hear Mickey say, with absolutely no shame, “We been doin’ shit you can only fuckin’ dream of. I mean, you should feel the way he _fucks_ me, Ryan.” 

The words leave Mickey’s mouth with complete and total conviction, like he’s gloating about it; and from the look on Ryan’s face, it’s clear that he’s striking a nerve. 

Ian instantly feels _hot_ all over. 

“You let him fuck you?” Ryan asks, incredulously. 

“Like you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe _,”_ Mickey says, his voice smooth and taunting. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

Mickey is so fucking _dramatic._ He’s painting a raunchy (and untrue) picture for Ryan to imagine; one where Ian is apparently fucking and kissing Mickey on the regular. 

It’s pissing Ryan off, and, unfortunately, it’s really, really starting to turn Ian on.

Instead of making his presence known by actually handing one of the shots to Mickey, Ian tips his head back and drains both glasses without hesitation. 

He sets them down on the nearest table; one that’s already littered with empty glasses and bottles, while contemplating how the fuck to keep himself under control.

Maybe Ian needs to reconsider that whole _banning gay people_ thing. Mickey included. 

He’s about to make his way back towards the bar just as Mickey notices him, grabbing for his wrist and pulling him through the crowd before he has a chance to escape.

Ian stumbles forward until they’re standing face to face, and everything starts to feel hazy as Mickey reaches up to slide his hands around the back of his neck. 

“Fuck this—I don’t want to see this shit,” Ryan says, angrily. 

Ian glances at Ryan, just in time to see him stomping away, and there’s something incredibly satisfying about the dejected look on his pathetic, douchey face.

This is so fucking stupid; for Ian to feel like he has something over Ryan, when this shit isn’t even real. And yet, Ian feels a completely unfounded sense of self-satisfaction. 

Because, fuck Ryan.

“Holy fuck, Mickey,” Ian says, hands skimming down each side of his torso. He doesn’t realize he’s laughing until he hears himself. “What the fuck are you _thinking?”_

Mickey grins, eyes slightly hooded as he licks at the corner of his mouth. He’s drunk, and he’s got his hands around Ian’s neck, and Ian’s drunk, and—

“Fuckin’ worth it, to see that sad ass look on his face,” Mickey says, breaking Ian’s train of thought. His breath hits Ian’s face as he speaks. “He’s so fuckin’ jealous of you.”

Even in Ian’s mild state of inebriation, it’s beginning to click. He thinks he gets it, now. 

This is about Ian getting something from Mickey that he never let Ryan have. 

Or, at least, making Ryan think that. 

Of course, Ian isn’t _actually_ getting anything at all, but it’s still fucking hot to him, somehow. 

Mickey is essentially using Ian for his own, very specific kind of revenge. And that’s okay, probably, because it really was Ian’s idea in the first place. Anything to put Ryan in his fucking place seems perfectly acceptable. 

“Well, he sure seems bothered that I—“ Ian pauses, forming air quotes before continuing, “— _‘fuck you like he wouldn’t believe,’_ apparently _.”_

Ian’s hands move down to Mickey’s hips, then, just as Mickey presses against him. He moves into Ian’s touch, and the heat radiating from his body is making Ian _want._

Mickey smirks and strokes his thumb back and forth across the nape of Ian’s neck. He leans in, closer to Ian’s lips, ghosting over them as he whispers, “He can’t stand it—the fact that I’d let you do shit to me that I never wanted from him.”

Fuck, there’s something about the way he says it; the way it sounds like _he means it,_ that gets heat simmering beneath the surface of Ian’s skin.

He glances down at Ian’s lips while he’s talking, and Ian can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose or not. Because, if he’s messing with him, it’s _working._

The events from last night start to play through Ian’s mind on loop. He had been fully prepared to kiss Mickey up against that fence, and the subsequent text messages certainly seemed to imply that Mickey had been on board, too.

So, Ian decides to _try_ something. 

He tightens his grip on Mickey’s hips and walks him backwards, pushing him back through the crowd, until he gets him pinned against the edge of the pool table. 

“You’ve still got me thinking—” Ian pauses, suddenly, dropping his voice down. “—about what kinda shit you might be into.”

Mickey stares up at him, tilts his head just enough to lightly touch Ian’s lips, and says, “Kinda into this.”

Ian feels like his restraint is waning, as he struggles to hold himself back. The teasing is going to be the fucking death of him.

And Mickey—Mickey is relentless with it; the way he’s trying so fucking hard to tempt Ian into making a move, and the way he’s already got Ian wrapped around every single one of his tattooed fingers.

It’s the way he fucking _knows_ it, pressing himself against Ian’s chest, as Ian’s resolve threatens to unravel more with every passing second.

They’re breathing the same air between one another, mouths open and brushing together. It’s not a kiss, but it’s _almost_ a kiss, and it’s fucking with Ian’s senses. 

If Ian was hoping for another opportunity to cater to his ill-advised desires, now would certainly be the time—and, yeah, why the fuck not.

He tilts his head to bring his mouth closer to Mickey’s ear, kissing gently down the side of his neck. 

Mickey inhales sharply.

“Into that, Mick?” Ian asks, keeping his voice low. He touches his lips right where Mickey’s ear meets his cheek, and adds, “For someone who doesn’t like kissing, you _really_ seem to like my lips on your neck.”

Mickey closes his eyes and nods slowly. He whispers, _“Fuck off,”_ with a smile that makes Ian’s heart race. “Can’t help it—shit feels good.”

“Look at me,” Ian whispers, watching as Mickey opens his eyes. He runs his thumb softly under Mickey’s chin, tilting his head up slightly. 

One of Mickey’s hands suddenly brushes against Ian’s lower back, and he slides it under the hem of his shirt to grab onto Ian’s side. Mickey teases over Ian’s lips again, as he whispers, “You waitin’ for a formal fuckin’ invitation, or—“

Ian cuts Mickey off, and just fucking goes for it; with parted lips and a hand moving up to hold the back of Mickey’s head, steadying him. 

And, despite the fact that Ian makes a _stupid noise_ that he’d probably be really fucking embarrassed about if he wasn’t drunk, Mickey slips his tongue into Ian’s mouth, and Ian takes it as a green light to kiss him harder.

He’s been waiting for this—a chance to kiss Mickey again, a chance to dial it up and try his absolute fucking hardest to take Mickey’s breath away.

Whether it’s working or not, Ian can’t be sure. But he’s _definitely_ sure of Mickey sliding his other hand beneath his shirt, curious fingers trailing up the bare skin of Ian’s back, while he grips harder onto his side.

Ian feels like the world around him goes blurry. 

Everything is just Mickey; Mickey’s mouth and Mickey’s hands, kissing and touching Ian like he’s got something to prove far beyond just making Ryan jealous.

Maybe that’s Ian’s wishful thinking.

Or, maybe it isn’t.

Mickey lets out a soft sound into Ian’s mouth, something between a sigh and a moan, and the sound strikes Ian like a fucking match. Mickey starts to sway backwards in the same moment, and Ian needs to place both hands on the small of his back to hold him upright.

And, yeah, as much as Ian would love nothing more than to lie Mickey down on the pool table and proceed to climb on top of him, it probably would be frowned upon. 

Probably.

However, Ian’s attempt to keep Mickey vertical seems to backfire when Mickey moans _louder,_ and every single functioning brain cell in Ian’s head just wants to make him moan again, and again, _and again._

He’d give just about anything to spend the rest of the fucking night discovering every single sound that Mickey has to offer, from soft to loud to completely unrestrained. 

If they’re going to stop, _they need to stop._

But Ian really, really, _really_ doesn’t want to stop.

Which has a lot to do with Mickey’s nails scratching lightly up and down his back, and even more to do with their tongues stroking back and forth over one another, teasing and tasting in the most captivating way.

Ian is less than a second away from asking Mickey to leave with him—because he can’t fucking keep this up without _doing something—_ until he’s suddenly being jabbed in the side with a pool stick.

A motherfucking pool stick.

There is clearly some cosmic force in the universe that really wants Ian to lose his shit entirely, while it laughs at his pathetic misfortune. 

Right now, that cosmic force is Sandy.

He pulls apart from Mickey, mumbling a very frustrated, _“Fuck,”_ under his breath as he turns to see Sandy looking at him with an amused smirk on her face. She pokes Mickey with the pool stick once she has Ian’s attention, and Mickey looks like he’s about to start spitting fire as he reluctantly pulls his hands out from beneath Ian’s shirt.

“Take a breather, Cuzz,” Sandy says. “If I wanted to see someone get a hole-in-one tonight, I’d play my own damn game of pool.”

Mickey shoots her the finger, smoothing out his clothes as he replies, “That’s golf, bitch. Not fuckin’ pool.”

That’s true. Still punny, though. 

“If you give a shit enough to stop eating each other’s faces, Ryan left five whole minutes ago,” Sandy says with an eyebrow raised. “Unless you’re just really taking that whole _‘method acting’_ thing way too seriously.”

“Hilarious. You should be a fuckin’ comedian,” Mickey says, snatching the pool stick from her hand and throwing it haphazardly back onto the table. “You need somethin’? Or did you just come over here to poke me with a fuckin’ stick?”

Ian is only half-listening to their conversation, unable to focus with his vision hazy and his alcohol-addled brain stuck on the thought of Mickey’s lips. 

It seems that, after a night of drinking, the last two shots of whiskey and a few minutes of making out with Mickey were more than enough to bring Ian to a top-tier level of wasted.

“Nessa wants to play a round of pool with her friends, which they can’t do if Ian is banging you on top of the table,” Sandy tells Mickey.

Although she makes a very good point, Ian thinks he’d really like to try that sometime.

Meanwhile, he should probably try to sober up.

“M’not gonna bang anyone on the pool table,” Ian says, and he can hear the mild slur of his own words.

Sandy smiles at him, maybe pitying his stupid, drunk ass a little bit, as she says, “Boss Man, how ‘bout some water?” 

Ian would really love it if everyone would stop calling him that, but water sounds fucking heavenly right about now.

He nearly loses his balance as he tries to follow her, and Mickey steps forward to grab his arm. 

“Hey, man, you good?” Mickey asks. He’s smiling softly, and Ian looks down when he feels Mickey’s thumb brushing gently over his bicep. “We gotta get some food and water into you.”

In retrospect, Ian definitely could have done without the last two whiskey shots. They pushed him completely over the edge, and his brain feels like wobbly, drunk jello as a result. 

Which means—regardless of anything else—he’s striking out by default.

Someone, please, begin the fucking slow clap.

* * *

One of Ian’s Gold Star talents, by a fucking landslide, is surely his impeccable ability to wake up in beds that aren’t his own.

And, no, that’s not even a sex thing. 

It hasn’t been in a while. 

It’s really just a stupidity thing, based heavily on an overabundance of alcohol and arguably poor choices.

For the second Saturday in a row, Ian finds himself hungover, blinking his way into a conscious state of mind, and desperately trying to figure out where the fuck he is. 

This time, he’s not in Lip’s guestroom. 

Nope, definitely not.

This time, he’s in Mickey’s loft.

Sunlight is casting in through the window above the bed, creating a pleasant warmth on Ian’s skin. He’s sprawled out in the center of the bed, clad in his t-shirt and boxers from the night before, and—what the fuck?

This is an entirely new level of embarrassment.

Ian remembers most of last night. He remembers going from _not that drunk_ to _completely fucking drunk,_ and as he wracks his brain, he remembers Mickey dragging his drunk ass upstairs with him. 

He would have never successfully made the walk home to his apartment, and staying at the bar really wouldn’t have been a smart choice, either.

Except, Jesus Christ.

It’s also not Mickey’s job to take care of him, and he shouldn’t have to. 

There’s no question that nothing happened between them beyond their excessive display of PDA, but Ian still feels like a fucking fool.

Mickey’s bed is cozy; a soft, California king memory foam mattress with white sheets and a pillowy, gray comforter that’s currently wrapped around Ian like a cocoon. If he had the option of burying himself beneath it and never showing his face again, he would do exactly that, without so much as a second of hesitation.

But, since he does _not_ have that option, Ian needs to get up. He debates either slipping out unannounced, or maybe, at the very least, thanking Mickey for offering up his bed.

The rest of his clothes are in a pile on the floor beside him, and he undoubtedly peeled them off before crashing into a dead sleep. He dresses himself, makes the bed, and heads down the wooden staircase to the bottom level of the apartment.

While the clear path to the loft door offers a tempting escape, Ian makes the incredibly grown-up decision to shove aside his pride and join Mickey out on the balcony. 

He’s sitting at the patio table sipping on a cup of coffee, and he looks up with a smile when he notices Ian sliding open the screen door.

“Coffee’s fresh,” Mickey says. “Glad to see you made it through the fuckin’ night, Gallagher.”

Coffee. A-fucking-men.

Maybe Ian’s life can be spared, after all.

He grabs himself a fresh cup from the kitchen and returns to sit across from Mickey.

“So,” Ian begins, solemnly. “I fucked up.”

Mickey chuckles and sets his mug down.

“You overdid it, man,” he says with a shrug. “Ain’t a big deal. I mean—you remember my texts from last week? Fuckin’ mess, right?”

Ian sighs. 

Mickey is right, sort of.

It’s not _really_ a big deal, but Ian also knows that he can’t keep ending his nights like this.

He is continually falling back into this internal struggle, where he’s stuck between wanting to have fun, and knowing that he should probably stop being so damn unprofessional.

Plus, heavy drinking isn’t good for him. 

Among other things, like lowered inhibitions and a heightened appetite for—well, Mickey, specifically.

“Thanks, Mick,” Ian says after a moment. “For making sure I had a place to sleep and shit.”

“Fuck else was I gonna do? Leave your drunk ass to fall asleep on the floor down there, or risk you fallin’ into a fuckin’ trashcan somewhere on your way home.”

“Speaking of that—“ Ian trails off, and he’s pretty certain that he doesn’t have to spell it out. “Last night. Do you think we got a little carried away?”

What a question, Ian. 

Maybe just fucking slightly _._

“I mean, depends on what the fuck you were goin’ for,” Mickey says. 

He looks up as he says it, cocking an eyebrow as a grin spreads across his face. 

Ian smiles, too, with a rush of _something_ swirling within his belly.

“Well,” Ian begins, pursing his lips like he’s thinking. 

Before he says anything else, he tries to read Mickey’s expression; relieved to find that Mickey looks surprisingly relaxed and unguarded. He’s waiting for Ian’s response, completely unperturbed.

And, yeah.

That’s good, because Ian is sick of stumbling into an abyss of mild panic after anything even remotely _boyfriendy_ happens with Mickey. Like, they agreed to do this shit, but as soon as they share a kiss, Ian becomes terrified that Mickey is going to regret it. 

Or something.

Ian takes a sip of his coffee, and finally says, “I was—really just going for convincing.”

That’s not entirely true.

Ian was going for a lot more than that, whether it was intentional or not. 

“Convincing, huh?” Mickey repeats. “Yeah, you got that shit covered real well, I think.”

Yes, well. It was convincing because Ian fucking liked it. There’s no way that shit isn’t obvious.

And Ian really, really likes this part of it, too—this very lighthearted back and forth, teasing each other about who was more into the kiss.

Call it whatever the fuck you want, but by Ian’s standards, it’s just another form of flirting. 

“Me?” Ian points to himself, scoffing. “What about _you?_ You had your hands so far up my shirt I thought you were going to rip it off my body.”

Mickey lifts his middle finger, pointing it at Ian as he shakes his head. He says, “Fuck’s your point? Means I’m just as convincing as you are, bitch.”

“You might be even more convincing, I think,” Ian pauses for a second, and adds, “ _Bitch.”_

“Oh, yeah? More convincing than you lickin’ my neck like a fuckin’ popsicle?”

Ian shrugs. “Which you liked.”

Mickey’s cheeks turn a light pink, and—that’s fucking cute.

“Wasn’t bad,” Mickey says.

“Pretty sure you said something about it _feeling good.”_

“Pretty sure _fuck you_ is what I said.”

Ian grins. He really isn’t buying into Mickey’s whole act of indifference.

He has somewhat of a tell; a gleam in his eye and the faintest trace of a smile, even when he’s trying to hide behind a serious face. 

And, of course, the blush making its way down his neck is another dead giveaway.

“Pretty sure I don’t believe you,” Ian says. Mickey looks a little bit surprised, and Ian likes that; when he actually manages to catch him off guard. He decides to roll with it, and says, “Pretty sure you like kissing me more than you’re willing to admit.”

It’s not exactly an unreasonable assumption.

They’ve shared five kisses, so far. 

One on the cheek, two quick pecks on the lips, and then—yeah, the two not so quick ones.

Ian felt so fucking _much_ during both of their audience-oriented make out sessions, and between that and everything else that’s been happening between them, he’s pretty damn convinced that Mickey enjoyed them, too.

Maybe not in the same way.

Maybe not with the same _feelings_. 

Maybe not with the same butterflies in his stomach, or the same sense of yearning that’s brewing agonizingly in the depths of Ian’s soul.

So, maybe it’s fleeting. Maybe it’s superficial and meaningless besides fun and—well, pleasure.

Maybe Mickey is feeling the way Ian felt before he started to feel just a little bit _more._

But, whatever it is, it’s something. 

It’s definitely something. It has to be.

Mickey is watching him curiously, like he’s coming to his own conclusions, and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth as he considers Ian’s words. 

He doesn’t deny it, and he can’t seem to come up with any kind of comeback, which is entirely unlike him. He’s usually five steps ahead of Ian, ready to clap back with any sort of comment that keeps a steady banter flowing between them. 

But, Mickey Milkovich—speechless? 

That’s certainly new. 

Maybe Ian is onto something.

And then, because Ian feels like further testing Mickey’s limits, he adds, “In fact, I’m pretty sure that kissing me might _actually_ turn you on.”

He’s doing his best to shove aside some of that persistent, nervous tension in favor of something completely different.

Because, if they’re going to continue having these random, unpredictable flirtations, he might as well try to relax and have some fucking fun with it. 

Mickey sits back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. 

“Look at you, gettin’ all cocky and shit,” Mickey finally says. “Don’t fuckin’ flatter yourself, Gallagher.”

Ian shrugs his shoulders, smiling a little too sweetly to actually be sincere. He stands up from the table, pausing to say, “Guess I’m on the right track, then.”

“The fuck you mean, ‘right track?’ _”_ Mickey asks. “Right track for _what?”_

“Figuring out what turns you on,” Ian says, simply. “And what exactly you’re into.”

Mickey nods his head slowly, but he looks _conflicted,_ like he’s not sure how he should be responding or handling this. 

Maybe Ian isn’t completely off his game, after all.

He thinks about leaving without another word, making a smooth exit that has Mickey thinking about him long after he’s gone; the same way Mickey left him hanging with that fucking phone call the other night.

Before he has that chance, Mickey asks, “Why the fuck you makin’ all this about me? As if this shit ain’t been turnin’ _you_ on just as much.”

And, yeah. Touché.

Goosebumps rise across Ian’s skin at Mickey’s words—because his traitorous fucking body reacts to literally everything Mickey says or does, whether he wants it to or not. 

Mickey stands up and takes a step closer to him. He adds, “You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

It sort of feels like Ian’s fight or flight response is kicking in—as if he can either continue on with this, or make an excuse to get the hell out before he does something _stupid._

But, Ian doesn’t really want to choose the latter option, anymore.

“Not gonna tell you anything,” Ian says, decidedly, although his smirk is saying enough. He moves closer to Mickey, until Mickey has to look up to meet his eyes. And that inexplicable feeling; the feeling that only comes from being in Mickey’s space, hits Ian like an arrow to the chest. He wonders what Mickey feels, or if he even feels anything at all. “I guess you’re just gonna have to—” he pauses, leaning closer to Mickey’s mouth. Their lips brush together barely, as Ian adds, “—figure it out.”

Ian pulls back immediately, but their proximity remains. He doesn’t miss the way Mickey’s eyes flicker down to his lips, for only a second before their eyes meet again. 

Mickey takes a step back, smiles, and says, “If you insist.”

There it is. Challenge accepted.

Something about it feels _exciting._ Like, maybe they’re actually going to do this. 

And—why not, really?

They’re already fake-dating. 

Presumably, they can’t really date anyone _else_ right now, at the risk of being seen. 

Plus, it’s not like any of this actually means something. But it’s the possibility that gets Ian’s heart racing faster; the idea that maybe something _could_ happen, if they both decided to let it.

It’s also the thrill of a challenge.

It’s the thrill of Ian trying to break down Mickey’s walls, while Mickey tries to break down Ian’s first.

And, no—casual sex isn’t really on Ian’s agenda anymore, but Mickey is different. 

Mickey probably wouldn’t count as casual sex, but—

Jesus. Ian needs to stop thinking about this shit as if it’s a sure thing.

He also really needs to get home.

Making his way to the balcony door, he offers Mickey one final, charming smile as he says, “Bye, boyfriend,” with a wink.

Mickey smiles back; an impish sort of grin that’s surely meant to further pique Ian’s curiosity.

It’s certainly working. 

For better or for worse, Ian can’t be sure. 

* * *

Ian manages to spend the remainder of the weekend both productively _and_ alcohol-free, feeling highly motivated by his recent bouts of intoxicated stupidity.

Not that he regrets them.

Because, he really doesn’t. At all.

But in the aftermath of questionable decisions—such as several late, at least semi-drunken nights out within the last week of his life—Ian tends to find himself propelled into making several healthier choices, no matter how boring.

And, he also desperately needs a distraction.

So, he keeps himself busy. He makes a checklist and gets to work; completing unfinished household chores, like an overflowing basket of laundry and a sink full of dirty dishes. 

He double (and triple) checks that he’s prepared for his financial meeting on Monday, with all of the necessary paperwork handy and well-organized.

While he’s going through his phone schedule, he sees a reminder labeled, _“Doc Appointment,”_ that he’s long since forgotten about scheduling.

It’s a relatively important one. 

To say that Ian’s life has changed significantly over the last few months would be an understatement. It’s not like a windfall of fortune is a common occurrence, or the typical sort of milestone that everyone experiences during their lifetime.

It’s kind of a big fucking deal. 

And, when Ian meets with his psychiatrist this upcoming Wednesday, it’s definitely going to come up.

His last appointment was back in March, just before the news broke about Clayton being his father. In retrospect, it wouldn’t have been the worst idea to call the office sooner, under the circumstances.

And, well, he sort of fell off the wagon with his therapist, too.

Milestones and life changing experiences tend to act as major stressors in anyone’s life, and not everyone handles such events in positive ways.

Sometimes, they can lead to a downward spiral. Other times, they can jump-start something much more erratic and unhinged. 

The human mind has a strange way of compensating and reacting to the grueling back and forth of day-to-day life. It’s impossible to predict, really, and Ian has experienced his share of ups and downs, over the years.

When Ian was just seventeen, he was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder; courtesy of his mother’s immaculate genetics, without a doubt. 

After an onslaught of shaky months filled with questionable judgment and unhealthy coping mechanisms, Ian was _eventually_ given an appropriate diagnosis.

It had been a major component of his behavior and warped perspective of the world around him; acting as a steering wheel while headed down a road that he sorely regrets, looking back. 

Stripping was a gateway for regular misuse of drugs and alcohol, while drugs and alcohol encouraged him to do just about anything with anyone, in exchange for money and other various party favors.

It took the heavy hit of a depressive episode to bring his newfound lifestyle to a screeching halt, in favor of locking himself into his bedroom; lonely and empty and hopeless.

His desire to live, to make something of himself, felt as though it had been ripped from his body.

Most of the time, it seemed to Ian that nobody _really_ gave a shit. His family offered a fair amount of support, of course, but without any real understanding of what Ian was actually experiencing, it was difficult for them to know what Ian needed.

They preached an awful lot about _knowing how to deal with it_ because of fucking Monica, as if that made any of them a goddamn expert on the matter.

It’s almost like they all forgot that nobody could ever actually _handle_ Monica, at all.

His treatment was especially difficult because of his own abject refusal to comply. 

Not to mention, his incredibly convincing ability to lie to his family _about_ complying.

Because, let’s fucking face it—nobody wants to be medicated for their entire life, and nobody wants to feel as though they have to mask themselves behind medication in order to be a functional human being.

And, Jesus Christ, the meds made Ian feel horrible.

At least when Ian experienced his highs, he actually felt _good._

But, in contrast, his choices always made him feel awful, once the good feelings wore off. 

You know, as the saying goes—what goes up, must come down.

And, even more, the low periods were _too_ low. Below functional, below compatible with life.

There was a turning point, somewhere in the crossfire, in which Ian realized that he wanted to get better. Do better. Try harder. A turning point in which he _needed_ to prove that he wasn’t— _isn’t—_ Monica. He never wanted to live in her shadow, through whispers of pity and dulcet tones telling him, _“You’re gonna be okay, Ian.”_

Because, fuck that. Fuck all of that. 

Fuck the cliches and the sympathy. 

Ian never fucking wanted or needed any of that shit. 

And so, it took some time. 

Be it his own stubborn nature or his initial state of denial, it took some time. 

It took time to accept. It took time to comply. It took time to find the strength to fight for himself and his well-being. It took time to adjust to medications, and it took time to find a cocktail that really and truly worked for him. 

That’s the thing about mental illness, though. 

There’s no linear pathway to recovery, and no magic cure-all method.

Ian had to pave his own way. 

And so, he did. He fucking did.

He stopped with the drugs, and he stopped with the excessive use of alcohol. He stopped stripping, and he stopped fucking around for money. He was still having casual sex on a semi-regular basis, but it was a start.

It was certainly a fucking start.

His medications have always mixed poorly with alcohol, and although he’s managed to develop a fair tolerance, he still keeps it to a minimum. He drinks while socializing, sometimes, but it still hits him harder than it tends to affect others. 

He’s as careful as he can be, and he only drinks while in the company of people he trusts. People like Lip— _and Mickey—_ who are willing to offer him a bed without a second thought, when he accidentally goes a little bit overboard.

While Ian worked on picking up the pieces of what he felt was a shattered life, he spent a lot of time either out of a job, or picking and choosing between jobs that weren’t even remotely satisfying. 

But, most importantly—he was making money, and he was trying. 

Through his efforts, he slowly began to find fragments of himself that had been lost within the darker confines of his mind. He unburied them, so to speak, and he brought himself back. 

No matter how trivial the job, he started to save his earnings to the best of his ability, with the goal of moving out as soon as he felt financially comfortable enough to do so.

While working and searching for ways to fulfill himself, he also discovered an interest in music. 

One of Fiona’s old boyfriends left a handful of belongings behind after a particularly ugly breakup, and once she deemed all of his shit up for grabs, Ian called dibs on an acoustic guitar.

While searching for productive hobbies and ways to keep himself busy, he decided to try his hand at teaching himself how to play. And, to Ian’s surprise, it came pretty easily to him. 

Fast forward to present-day, and here Ian is at age twenty-four; financially secure in ways he never anticipated, owner of a music lounge, and still managing to keep himself stable and healthy.

It feels good. 

It feels like a reason to be proud of himself. 

And that’s what he thinks about today, as he busies himself by pulling out his guitar.

It’s almost ironic, but Ian doesn’t think he’s touched his guitar since the lounge actually opened last week. Maybe even since he started renovating.

It’s been a bitch of a job, and one that has required pretty much all of Ian’s attention and energy.

And, well. He’s been spending any and all of his _remaining_ energy on Mickey.

Tonight, though, he puts it into music.

Except, he’s still _thinking_ about Mickey.

In fact, he thinks about Mickey the entire fucking time.

If he was a fucking songwriter, he’d probably already have half an album dedicated to him.

Which—he’s not. _Thankfully._

They’ve been texting a little bit since Ian left the loft on Saturday, but Ian makes a point of mentioning that he’s busy, if even just for an excuse to _not_ text him.

He doesn’t want to seem like he’s fucking desperate, or something.

But, come Sunday evening, once his laundry is done and his sink is sparkling clean, he sits down on his couch and picks up his phone.

He has four unread texts, and he can’t fucking _stand_ how quickly they make him smile.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _I hope you had a fun boring weekend_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Doing boring things_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Living that luxury millionaire life_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _You know you can pay a fucking person to do that shit for you_

Ian sends back—

 **_Ian:_ ** _Why? You need a job?_

 **_Ian:_ ** _Tattoo business hurting that badly?_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Yeah cuz you won’t let me fucking give you one_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Little bitch_

Although it’s become an ongoing joke, Ian is beginning to think that Mickey really _does_ mean it. But the idea of getting a mystery tattoo is intimidating, no matter how much Ian likes Mickey. 

**_Ian:_ ** _Little bitch? Says the guy that’s like an entire human being shorter than me_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Funny that I’d still kick your little bitch ass_

Yeah. Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s debatable, as are most of their discussions.

Ian finds that he isn’t too sure how he wants to continue this. It seems that they can snap back and forth easily between flirty and friendly, which Ian is thankful for. 

It’s just—he’s not sure which he’s more in the mood for, right now.

So, maybe he’ll just fucking wing it.

He types—

 **_Ian:_ ** _I’m shaking with fear_

Because, sometimes being an asshole gets him the most rewarding responses.

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Yeah I bet_

Other times, like right now, the conversation sort of falls flat. 

When Mickey doesn’t say anything else, Ian decides to switch it up.

 **_Ian:_ ** _So_

 **_Ian:_ ** _What do boyfriends text about?_

 **_Ian:_ ** _Am I supposed to send you flowers on days that I don’t see you or something?_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _No… fuck off_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _I doubt you know shit about flowers_

 **_Ian:_ ** _I do not. You… do?_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _I do not_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Only Stargazer lilies_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _I had to tattoo one on someone before with full color and shit_

Well, that’s kind of cute; the fact that Mickey must have liked it enough to remember the name.

Ian decides to pull up a picture on his phone, before replying. He may know absolutely nothing about flowers, but he can still appreciate that the pink, speckled petals are pleasing to the eye.

Ian thinks for a moment, before replying.

 **_Ian:_ ** _That’s not what you’re planning on tattooing on me, is it?_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Fuck no_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _Wait. That mean you’re gonna let me?_

Ian smiles to himself. 

Honestly, who the fuck is he kidding? 

Of course he’s going to let him.

 **_Ian:_ ** _Guess so. Don’t make me regret it_

 **_Mickey:_ ** _No promises_

Ian has no idea what the fuck he’s thinking. 

At the _very_ least, he’s still going to make sure that Lip gets his done first.

* * *

Late on Monday morning, Ian meets with a stuffy man named Clarke; a middle-aged financial advisor recommended to him by Wyatt, back before Ian originally purchased the building from him. 

Clarke is nice enough, with a no-nonsense sort of attitude that makes Ian only slightly uncomfortable. Like the E at the end of his name, Clarke is a relatively silent person; spitting out his concise advocations and getting straight to the point. 

The logistics are boring, but Ian trusts that the guy knows what he’s talking about.

And, honestly, Ian would daresay he deserves a fair bit of credit. He’s doing very well with his finances, and he’s about as organized as anyone could be, in his position. 

Clarke _does_ have a few recommendations, of course.

Wyatt was a nice guy, but in Clarke’s opinion, he was also a bit of a pushover.

When Mickey moved in, Clarke didn’t condone Wyatt’s discounted rental agreement. 

“If you ask me, Wyatt’s discounted rate felt more like charity than a mutually beneficial decision,” Clarke tells Ian, punching numbers into a calculator. “$3,000 _combined_ per month? How much labor could he possibly be doing to make that cut worth it? You could easily make $5,000 for _each_ floor. Do you even realize how much money you’re losing?”

Okay, that part is true. 

Mickey really hasn’t done much work for Ian at all apart from the original setup of the lounge. But, Ian really doesn’t need him to. 

He also doesn’t care. At all.

It’s more than a little bit awkward, to sort through all of this as if Ian isn’t harboring a big, fat fucking crush on the tenant in question. 

And, honestly. He knows this guy is just doing his job—but he doesn’t really give a shit about making more money. Even more, he obviously has no interest in kicking Mickey out.

It hasn’t even been a question since before Ian actually met him.

Mickey saved for years to be able to afford $3,000 per month, especially on top of a start-up business that’s only now starting to bring in a semi-steady cash flow.

It’s not like that’s a cheap number, by any means. 

Ian knows what it’s like, and he’s not about to screw Mickey over for the sake of extra income that he doesn’t actively need.

“We can always revisit this in the future, should you ever change your mind,” Clarke says, as if he’s not fully satisfied when his suggestion isn’t well received. “There are a lot of potential tenants that would arguably be willing to bid a hefty amount for either of those spaces.”

Maybe. Probably. 

But Ian would be willing to argue that no offer would actually be worth it.

* * *

Ian goes for a run with Carl on Wednesday morning, as he continues to work on reintroducing some semblance of a healthy routine back into his life. 

That was one of his psychiatrist’s first recommendations, during his appointment yesterday. It’s not like Ian isn’t already aware of the importance of routine, when it comes to maintaining mental wellness. 

He’s certainly gotten away from that, over the last few months of his life. 

Although it wasn’t intentional, it isn’t exactly surprising, either. Nothing breaks routine quite like an entire lifestyle change. 

But that’s also not an excuse to shy away from healthy habits _forever._

As his life begins to balance into a new normal, implementing simple things like a workout routine back into his daily schedule is certainly helpful.

He and Carl manage to run five miles, which is an impressive feat after very minimal cardio over the last few months.

It makes Ian feel good, as one final spike of adrenaline has him racing Carl to Rhythm Recall’s entrance, marking their endpoint.

Carl groans as Ian beats him by a few feet at best, and Ian wrestles him into a sweaty headlock once he catches up. 

“Close enough,” Carl grumbles. “Maybe if you didn’t have fucking giraffe legs.”

“I don’t have _giraffe_ legs,” Ian argues, shoving Carl away as he pulls out his key to unlock the door. “You just suck—and I’m faster than you.”

Carl huffs, rolling his eyes as they make their way inside. Ian pretends he doesn’t notice. 

He grabs a bottle of water for each of them as Carl drops down on one of the couches, taking a breather before he catches an Uber back home. 

After snatching a hand towel from the kitchen, Ian steps into the bathroom, wiping sweat from his forehead and briefly examining his reflection in the mirror. His tank top is sweat-soaked and the air conditioning spreads a chill across his skin. He really needs to head back to his place to shower, before returning to the lounge later this evening for tonight’s performing band.

When he exits the bathroom, fully prepared to exchange goodbyes with Carl, he’s not at all expecting to find Mickey standing near the bar counter.

Mickey smiles at him, and Ian is hit with an instant wave of self-consciousness.

“Carl’s Uber showed up real fast, but he said he’d maybe swing by later,” Mickey says.

“Oh,” Ian says, stupidly. “Okay—what’re you doing here?”

He asks the question as if Mickey doesn’t _live and work_ upstairs, and he realizes how dumb it sounds the instant the words leave his mouth. 

I mean, Jesus Christ.

A simple _hello_ would have been more than sufficient, Ian.

“Got somethin’ to ask you,” Mickey says. “I was gonna text you but you’re here anyway, so—”

He’s dressed down in grey sweatpants and a plain, blue t-shirt, like he hasn’t quite gotten ready for the day yet. 

But, as always, he looks good.

Meanwhile, Ian has certainly looked better.

A sweat-damp, white tank top and black athletic shorts wouldn’t have been Ian’s first outfit choice, had he anticipated running into Mickey this morning.

“Ask away,” Ian says, joining Mickey by the bar and _vaguely_ hoping that he doesn’t fucking smell like sweat or unpleasant body odor.

If he does, Mickey doesn’t seem particularly offended. In fact, it seems to be quite the opposite, as Mickey gives him a brief but rather obvious once-over. His eyes land on Ian’s chest and trail back down his arms, and Ian wonders if Mickey even realizes that he’s doing it.

Huh, interesting. 

So, on second thought, maybe his gross workout clothes create a better impression than Ian initially would have thought.

Mickey grins, meets Ian’s eyes again, and asks, “Wonderin’ if you’re free on Friday. Or d’you got a date with a different fake boyfriend?”

Ian snorts.

He stares at Mickey for a second, humming under his breath. He shrugs and says, “Lucky for _you,_ my other fake boyfriends are all busy on Fridays.”

Mickey lets out a fake _hah-hah_ kind of laugh, and Ian can’t help but smile.

“Good, ‘cause you’re takin’ me on a fuckin’ date, Gallagher,” he says. “And Friday’s the only day I could get a reservation for.”

_A date?_

Or—more accurately—a fake date?

Ian would appreciate a little bit more information.

When Mickey isn’t exactly forthcoming with an explanation, Ian asks, “What—the fuck are you talking about?”

Mickey briefly scrolls through his phone and holds it up for Ian to see. There’s a website tab open with images of an elegant looking riverside restaurant; complete with fancy decor and entrees that are surely set aside for people who have an unnecessary amount of money to waste. 

People like Ryan, and people like Ian.

“Ryan’s family owns this fancy ass restaurant near Navy Pier. Tyriander Villa—like their last name, y’know? Ryan was always bitchin’ that I never wanted to do shit like that. So, now we gotta do it. _Plus,_ we can post annoying date photos and shit.”

Oh, right. This is another Ryan thing. 

Another thing that Mickey either never did, or didn’t _enjoy_ doing with him.

Which reminds Ian—he’d really like to revisit all of that again, at some point. 

It’s just that he can’t seem to come up with the best way to bring it up; the fact that Mickey blatantly bragged to Ryan about _how good Ian fucks him._

And, well.

Although that obviously isn’t true, Ian would love to find out if maybe Mickey would really like to take him up on it. 

He figures they’re nearly overdue to continue on with their escapades, and maybe a fake date is the best environment to actually facilitate that.

Except, despite wanting something to happen, he still knows that he shouldn’t be seriously considering _anything_ like that. 

Because boundaries, and professionalism, and whatever the fuck.

Which Ian still doesn’t really care about, beyond knowing that he _should._

“I think I can handle that,” Ian says, accepting Mickey’s proposal. 

It’s not like he was ever going to decline.

True to form, he continues to ignore the unfortunate details. They don’t suit his current needs, and Ian is trying to be responsible. That doesn’t mean he needs to be fucking boring.

“Ryan posted on Facebook that he’s gonna be there on _a hot date,_ so. Guess what? Me fuckin’ too, dickless fuckin’ bitch.”

Ian has to give Mickey serious credit. His dedication to making Ryan miserable is admirable. 

“So—what do you want me to do?”

Mickey furrows his brows, shrugs his shoulders, and says, “Don’t know. Nothin’ really. Look hot? You think you can handle that?”

His lack of a filter is probably way more endearing than it should be. 

Ian smiles.

“I _meant—_ how do you want me to act? How do you want me to dress? What kind of _date_ is this gonna be?”

Ian means formal versus informal. Polite and well-mannered versus rude and uncivilized. Dramatic and loud versus reserved and quiet. 

He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

“Nah, man. We gotta be fuckin’ annoying. Make sure Ryan knows we’re there, make sure to be embarrassing. I wanna make Ryan’s family wonder why the fuck he was ever with me,” Mickey explains.

Ian doesn’t exactly want a horrible reputation around the entirety of Chicago, but it’s not like people necessarily know who _he_ is. 

Plus, his friends and family don’t give a shit about whatever rumors may surface about him. 

He’s doing this for fun, and—mostly—he’s doing this for Mickey. 

And, if the idea of a real (fake) date gets Ian feeling a little bit flustered, he’ll just keep that minor detail to himself.

“Don’t care what you wear though,” Mickey adds, after a moment. He gestures to Ian’s shirt as he says, “Maybe somethin’ a little less sweaty.”

Ian stares at him.

“I’ll do my best to keep my sweat stains under control,” he quips. “Not like I just ran five fucking miles or anything.”

“Messin’ with you,” Mickey says with a smile. “Wear fuckin’ anything that’s gonna get Ryan’s attention.”

Ian isn’t at all interested in attracting unwanted attention from Ryan, but, sure.

If Mickey wants him to look good, Ian will do his best to look good.

* * *

By four o’clock on Friday afternoon, Ian begins to feel _nervous._

Like, sweaty palms and butterflies-in-stomach kind of nervous. 

No, this doesn’t exactly qualify as a _real_ date.

In the same way that Mickey doesn’t exactly qualify as Ian’s _real_ boyfriend. 

But it doesn’t really _feel_ all that different than a real date, if Ian is being completely honest with himself.

This is one of those moments where the lines feel blurred; where the imbalance of having real feelings versus fighting to keep those feelings in check becomes loud, clear, and quite honestly—fucking obnoxious.

Ian has two objectives tonight, once everything is all said and done.

Objective #1: Make Ryan feel a burning combination of jealousy and frustration. Basically, act like Mickey’s arm candy while also being as annoying as humanly fucking possible.

Objective #2: Impress Mickey. Become desirable to Mickey. Make Mickey want him, maybe, more than he’s managed to achieve up until now.

 _Somehow_.

He’s not certain that the second objective is reasonable, or possible, on a night like tonight. 

Or at all.

His primary focus needs to be on pissing Ryan off, as usual, and it’s hard to play the role of a charming and appealing date when he’s simultaneously acting the part of a rude and obnoxious one. 

So, he’ll revisit those details later.

Meanwhile, he starts with the _looking good_ part.

Ian chooses a maroon button-down accented with small, white polka-dots, and a dark pair of fitted jeans. He opts to leave the top three buttons undone, after snapping and unsnapping them several times before making his final decision. 

There’s just enough skin showing to expose a light patch of chest hair, and, yeah—Ian doesn’t look half bad. He’s date-ready and maybe he’s even feeling himself a little bit, as he touches his hair up once more before he’s fully satisfied.

He picks Mickey up around six thirty.

Mickey looks great—not that Ian expected anything less. He’s dressed in a dark grey button-down with an equally dark pair of denim, and black boots to pull it all together. 

It’s hard not to look at him, as he makes his way over to Ian’s Jeep.

Ian tries to keep his eyes to himself.

The Jeep feels like a nice touch, since Ian really hasn’t had a reason to drive it since purchasing it nearly two months prior. Tonight seems like the perfect opportunity to break it in.

“Nice ride, Gallagher,” Mickey says with a grin, as he hops into the passenger seat. 

“I mean, it’s not exactly a _Ferrari,_ but I like it,” Ian says with a grin.

“Fuck Ferraris,” Mickey says. “And fuck the dickbags that drive ‘em, too.”

Ian chuckles as he turns up the radio, and repeats, “Yeah, _fuck_ Ferraris,” switching the car into gear and pulling out onto the road.

* * *

Tyriander Villa, without a doubt, takes the cake as the most pretentious fucking restaurant that Ian has ever stepped foot in. Never in a million years would he be here by his own choice—and Mickey certainly wouldn’t be, either.

They’re seated at a table for two in the center of the main room, and Ryan is already well aware of their presence. 

When Ryan acknowledges them from across the room, Ian offers an insincere wave in response, while Mickey winks smugly at him.

It feels pleasantly satisfying to see the look of discomfort on Ryan’s face, as he keeps nervously glancing in their direction. It’s almost as if he’s already anticipating something.

And, well.

If he’s concerned about Mickey and Ian causing some kind of scene tonight, he’s absolutely _right_.

The fun part is making him wait for it.

Meanwhile, they order a bottle of champagne to start, while they try to make heads or tails of the menu.

Nothing is especially appetizing.

In fact, most of the options look completely fucking foreign, as far as Ian is concerned. 

“I just want some fuckin’ steak,” Mickey complains. “That so fuckin’ hard?”

”Uh—veel?” Ian says, pulling a disgusted kind of face as he looks through the menu options for the fourth time. “Gross. On second thought, fuck that.”

”Y’know, I think I’ll stick with the fuckin’ alcohol,” Mickey says with a shrug. 

He picks up the bottle of champagne, tipping his head back as he sucks down a few gulps, guzzling it back like it’s a fucking bottle of beer. Ian glances around them, noticing a few disdainful stares already fixated on their table. 

Or—well, fixated on Mickey. 

Ian turns back to Mickey just as he sets the champagne back onto the table.

The single bottle alone costs $130, and quite honestly, as far as Ian is concerned, it really tastes no different than any of the cheap shit he’s had in the past. He grabs it and takes a swig from the bottle, raising his eyebrows curiously when Mickey smirks at him. 

Even without their meals ordered yet, Mickey is already testing everyone’s limits. He’s managed to ask the waiter about ten different questions regarding today’s specials, in addition to loudly ridiculing their outrageous prices.

“To think I fuckin’ dated Ryan Tyriander— _wow._ Glad I got the fuck outta that trainwreck,” Mickey says loudly, without any room for question. 

It’s obvious that he wants people to hear him, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Customers of Tyriander Villa are more than familiar with the family name, and Mickey just made it explicitly clear that he had been involved with one of Mr. Tyriander’s sons. 

Ian watches as Ryan looks around anxiously, like he’s absolutely appalled at the mere mention of being associated with Mickey.

It’s sort of fucking hilarious, actually.

Serves him fucking right.

And then, in a very fitting display of keeping up appearances, Mickey lets out a loud, long belch as he casually slouches down in his chair. He continues flipping through the menu of gross, overpriced entrees, and Ian notices several more heads shooting nasty looks in their direction.

The place is about as quiet and stuffy as it gets, and Mickey isn’t exactly taking a page out of anyone’s well-mannered playbook today. 

If he’s aiming for an all-consuming level of embarrassment, it’s certainly working.

In fact, it’s working _so_ well that Ian needs to consciously remind himself that being rude is the entire fucking point. 

Mickey burps again suddenly, a bit louder, and this time Ian notices Ryan stand up from his table across the room. 

In the same moment, an old woman at the table directly across from them gives Mickey a dirty look, and Mickey snaps, “The fuck’s _your_ problem, Grandma?”

“ _Mickey,”_ Ian warns.

Ian is all for embarrassing displays of theatrics, but for fuck’s sake—fighting with an elderly woman definitely isn’t on the agenda for tonight.

Ryan appears at their table, then, folding his arms over his chest as he says, “That’s one thing I _really_ don’t miss—your extreme lack of table manners.”

Mickey laughs, raising his middle finger and pointing it up at Ryan.

“You’ll be fuckin’ shocked to learn that I don’t give a shit,” he says. “The fuck do I care what you think about me?”

Ryan scoffs.

“You actually like dealing with this every day?” Ryan asks, turning his attention to Ian. “Why are you even bothering with him, anyway? Is he a charity case for you, or something?”

Ian instantly feels his blood begin to boil. 

No, Ian isn’t _dealing_ with Mickey. 

He isn’t _bothering_ with Mickey. 

And, never for one single fucking second did he _ever_ think of Mickey as a charity case.

The only thing that Ian is actually certain of is that fact that he’s never wanted to piss Ryan off more than he does right fucking now, in this very moment.

He wants to make Ryan so fucking _livid_ that he sees red.

And, yeah. 

Ian thinks he knows exactly how to achieve that.

“You know what, Ryan?” Ian says as he stands up, digging into his pocket to pull out his wallet. He shoves several hundred dollar bills into his chest, letting them drop to the floor when Ryan doesn’t react quickly enough to catch them. “You want charity? You fucking got it. Tell your family to keep the change. I’m sure you need it more than I do.”

It’s kind of a power move. 

And it feels _really_ fucking good.

Mickey looks confused and a little bit stunned, but he follows Ian’s lead and stands up from his chair.

Ian chugs the remaining champagne from the bottle and slams it back down on the table. He burps loudly as the carbonation fizzles into his belly, followed by several hiccups that he makes absolutely no effort to hold back.

Ryan scrunches up his face in disgust, but Ian is really only focused on Mickey. He watches Mickey purse his lips together tightly, like he’s trying desperately not to laugh.

And it’s almost funny; the way Mickey is looking at Ian with such curiosity in his eyes. Ian is obviously straying off the beaten path by shaking up Mickey’s original plan, but Mickey really doesn’t seem to mind. 

“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome,” Ryan huffs out.

Instead of humoring Ryan with a response, Ian makes a shooing motion towards him, before turning to Mickey and reaching for one of his hands.

He decides to dial things up one notch further, and takes a step closer to Mickey, crowding him against the edge of the table.

And then, Ian kisses him. 

On the mouth, in the middle of Ryan’s family’s restaurant, Ian kisses him; effectively turning the prim and proper dining facility into an absolute fucking circus.

And then, because he’s seen it done on fucking movies and television shows before, he reaches one arm behind Mickey and pushes everything off the table, sending dishes and glassware tumbling to the floor. They shatter to pieces as they hit the hardwood, and Ian hears _gasps_ from around the room.

Ian pushes his weight against Mickey until Mickey has no choice but to sit down on the table’s edge, lying back as Ian hovers over him. 

Fuck, Ian thinks that was pretty damn smooth. 

And it seems like Mickey agrees, as he starts to kiss back harder.

Ian has always wanted to pull a stunt like this, even though it probably comes off way more romantic on the big screen. 

Although, from the soft sound that Mickey makes into Ian’s mouth, maybe it’s working just fine.

 _However,_ this is real fucking life. With repercussions and angry bystanders; like restaurant owners, employees, and irate customers, to name a few. 

It’s just that—Mickey’s hands are gripping onto each of Ian’s arms now, and Ian really likes that. _A lot._

He likes the way Mickey has one leg firmly planted on the ground, with the other hiked up and pressing into the side of Ian’s hips. 

So, you know. Fuck the repercussions. 

Ian wants to enjoy this.

And maybe he isn’t thinking clearly, when he runs his hand along Mickey’s jeans, or when he grabs onto his thigh. He feels Mickey smile into the kiss, and he can’t fucking help himself when he starts to smile back. 

Within seconds, they’re practically laughing together. This entire scenario is _ridiculous_ , and it must look so fucking obscene to everyone around them, surely staring with a combination of wide eyes and scornful glares.

Ian doesn’t care.

Mickey nips playfully at Ian’s bottom lip and Ian’s stomach twists into a knot—craving something so much _more_ than this, something that absolutely can’t happen here. 

Or, probably can’t happen anywhere. 

He forces himself to pull back, smiling with heated cheeks, as Mickey bites down on his own bottom lip. He smirks up at Ian, and something about it feels like an implication. 

Ian steadies his palms on the table as he pushes himself upright, and he holds out his hand for Mickey to take once he’s standing straight. 

Mickey lets himself be pulled up, and then he surprises Ian by yanking him towards the door.

They end up running through the door in a fit of _hysterics,_ exiting the restaurant without paying Ryan another glance.

Holy fuck—it feels fucking exhilarating.

It’s kind of funny, Ian thinks, that nobody else has ever caused him to feel this kind of rush. 

He’s beginning to feel it pretty constantly, whenever Mickey is around. 

* * *

Before Ian picked Mickey up earlier in the evening, he had a vague, unclear idea of how tonight would go. Fake date, rude behavior, angry Ryan— _end scene._

Instead, it’s starting to feel like their fake date at Tyriander Villa was the beginning of something else, entirely.

Ian doesn’t want to read too much into it. 

This still isn’t a real date, and their _fake date_ ended an hour ago. 

So, they’re just—hanging out? 

Presumably, yeah. Something like that.

Ian’s tastes aren’t exactly expensive, when it comes to a night out around Chicago. 

Especially on a night like this.

They walk the length of Navy Pier, as the sun sets in the distance. The boardwalk is busy with activity from couples, families, and friends, all enjoying the warm summertime air. 

The sky is lit up with bold shades of orange and yellow, with a few splashes of pink. 

If the circumstances were different—a lot less fake and a lot _more_ real—it would probably be incredibly romantic. 

They eventually stop at a hot dog stand, each buying a hot dog and an order of fries. Mickey pays, this time, as a thank you for going along with his scheme.

It’s not necessary, but Mickey insists. 

Street food has never tasted so fucking good.

It’s way more Ian’s style, too. 

He prefers a menu that doesn’t need to be studied ahead of time, before attempting to place an order.

“That was a pretty bold fuckin’ stunt you pulled back there,” Mickey says in between bites, as they sit down on a vacant bench along the edge of the water. “The look on his face—fuckin’ priceless, man.”

“You wanted me to be an annoying date,” Ian reminds him. “I just thought about what would piss me off, if the roles were reversed.”

“So you broke a shit ton of expensive dishes and made out with his ex in the middle of his own restaurant? Uh—yeah. Mission fuckin accomplished.”

Ian smiles. He looks at Mickey as he picks through his french fries, and it still manages to hit Ian out of nowhere; the overwhelming urge to say, “ _I really like you.”_

But, no. He’s not going to fucking say that.

Instead, he says, “I’ve always wanted to try that—push everything off a table and kiss someone against it.”

“Kinda weird,” Mickey says, looking at Ian like he's maybe a little bit amused. “Unless you’re into that shit. Then it probably ain’t so weird.”

“It’s not _weird_. It’s supposed to be sexy, right?” Ian asks. 

He tosses a french fry at Mickey’s face.

“ _The fuck?”_ Mickey swipes up at his face, hands flailing until he manages to find the fry in question. He tosses it back at Ian and says, “You know what ain’t sexy? Throwin’ fuckin’ french fries at me.”

“Says you,” Ian counters. He throws it back again, and it hits Mickey’s chest. “Seems sexy to me. Or—maybe I’m confusing the word _sexy_ with the words _fucking funny.”_

“You think so, Gallagher? You think you’re fuckin’ funny?”

“I _know_ I’m fucking funny,” Ian retorts.

Mickey says, “You wish, bitch,” before throwing the fry back at Ian once more. 

And then, Ian realizes that Mickey is looking at him, after a few seconds of silence.

“What?” he asks, curiously. 

He’s currently making his way through a handful of french fries, and he really doesn’t need Mickey _staring_ at him while he’s eating.

Mickey moves their food out of the way and slides across the bench. Ian is watching him with an eyebrow raised, but just as he goes to pop another fry into his mouth, Mickey leans forward and bites down on the other end.

Ian freezes when Mickey’s lips brush against his, and he sees a _flash_ before Mickey bites down harder, to break the french fry in half. He pulls back and shrugs, holding up his phone like some form of half-assed explanation.

“Gotta post another picture,” Mickey says with a grin. “Been a few weeks, right?”

Oh, right.

The fucking date night posts, like the one from the diner. Ian almost forgot.

The best part about the photo, by a landslide, is Ian’s _shock._

His eyes are open like he can’t process what’s happening, and the french fry is just barely visible between each of their mouths. It feels like a very greasy version of _Lady and the Tramp._  
  
"What the fuck are you gonna caption this one as?" Ian asks, after collecting himself.   
  
"Don't care," Mickey says. "Does it fuckin' matter?"  
  
"Maybe something borderline disgusting," Ian jokes. "Something like, _'Greasy french fry kisses'—_ sounds sexy, right?"  
  
"Okay," Mickey agrees, casually. He spends a few seconds typing on his phone, before looking up to say, "Done."

Ian almost chokes. 

"I was fucking _joking,"_ Ian says, pulling out his phone to look at the post. "Jesus, Mick. I don't want people thinking my mouth is fucking _greasy."_

"Why the fuck not? It is," Mickey says with a grin. "Greasy kiss bitch."

Ian says, "Speak for yourself," making a noise of fake disgust.

Mickey hums, leaning forward and saying, "C'mere, Gallagher. _"_

And, well.

Somehow, they're kissing again. 

Like many of their previous kisses, it tastes like a lot of things.

Alcohol, soda, and cigarettes. Mustard, ketchup, and french fries. 

But it also tastes like _Mickey,_ and Ian kind of likes that; the fact that Mickey's kisses sort of have their own flavor.

A flavor that he's beginning to recognize.

A flavor that he's beginning to crave.

When they pull apart, Ian mumbles, "French fries aren't sexy," against Mickey's lips.

And, yeah.

While that may be true, Mickey definitely makes up for the amount of sex appeal that french fries are lacking.

Ian isn't going to tell him that, though.

* * *

The rest of their date, that absolutely _isn't a date,_ ends with ice cream and a parking ticket.

The ice cream is delicious. 

The parking ticket, not so much.

How was Ian supposed to know that they'd run out of time on the meter?

He swore he was keeping track of the time—but he somehow managed to forget about it completely, instead.

There are worse things, though.

It's not like Ian can't afford to pay it.

By the time they arrive back at the building, it's nearly 11 p.m. 

They should be calling it a night. Ian should drop Mickey off and head home. 

Instead, they've both fallen into a weird, semi-uncomfortable silence.

Ian sort of feels like he's stalling, and he wonders if Mickey is, too.

"So," Ian says, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. 

“So,” Mickey repeats.

When Ian says nothing, Mickey looks like he's about to reach for the door handle.

He hesitates for a moment, before glancing back at Ian and asking, “So—you got any _end-of-date_ moves?”

Oh. Uh, _no?_

Ian clicks his tongue, while he tries to come up with an answer.

He hasn’t been on nearly enough real dates to properly entertain this question.

But. He knows what he’d _want_ to do, if that counts for anything.

Which gives him an idea.

He steps out of the Jeep and makes his way to the passenger door, opening it for Mickey with a sweet-as-pie smile. 

“Okay, Gallagher. Not a bad start,” Mickey notes, hopping down from his seat to stand beside him.

He looks at Ian, waiting for him to continue. 

Ian feels a little bit of brewing confidence, as he thinks about what to say next.

“I’d walk you to your door," Ian begins, "And tell you that I had a really nice time tonight.”

They walk side by side until they reach the building’s outer door, and Mickey turns back to face him.

Ian considers his next move.

They’ve had a fun night together, and this is all just hypothetical, anyway—right?

“Then, uh. I’d probably say something about hoping you had fun with me—” Ian pauses. He brushes his hand gently down Mickey’s chest, and adds, “—while trying to make it obvious that I’m into you.”

Ian has apparently decided to go for the bold and unapologetic approach, tonight. 

“Interesting,” Mickey says, quietly. He places a hand on each side of Ian’s hips, looking up to meet his eyes. “Might invite you upstairs with me. Y’know, if I was into you, too.”

Oh. Yeah, okay.

Ian’s pulse quickens instantly. 

This is one of those situations where Ian has no fucking _clue_ whether they’re being serious or not. 

But, holy fuck, he wants to kiss him. 

And, _holy fuck,_ he wants to go upstairs with him. 

He wants to get his hands all over Mickey’s fucking body and touch him everywhere, until he gets him hard, _until he gets him off._

Maybe the next time Mickey brags about _how good Ian fucks him,_ it won't be a fucking lie.

Jesus Christ. Calm the fuck down, Ian.

"If you invited me upstairs," Ian begins to ask, dropping his voice down. He grabs one of Mickey's wrists, right where his hand is still resting on Ian's hip. "What would you do if I said yes?"

Mickey exhales, tilting his head up. Their noses bump together, and Mickey whispers, "Gonna have to find that out for yourself."  
  
And—well, it's sort of a blur, from there. 

A heated, desperate blur. 

They make it through the outside door, kissing and touching and moving together. It's clumsy and kind of obnoxious, and they're in clear view of Rhythm Recall's inner entrance, as Mickey pushes Ian back against the door to the stairway.

Ian assumes that's sort of the point—to be seen, or whatever—but that's definitely not Ian's main goal, anymore.

Mickey unlocks the door quickly, and then they're struggling to climb the fucking stairs, kissing frantically while trying not to trip over each other.

It's definitely an ode to Ian's coordination, if nothing else.

By the time they make it to the door of Mickey's loft, Ian has accidentally sucked a mark into the side of Mickey's neck, and Mickey's hands are shaking as he fumbles with his keys, trying to unlock the door. 

Ian feels Mickey jiggling the door handle clumsily, while he continues to kiss along the side of his neck.

The keys fall to the ground with a _clang,_ and Mickey mutters, _“Fuck,”_ under his breath. 

“S’okay,” Ian mumbles, detaching himself from Mickey’s skin just long enough to kneel down and pick up the keys. 

He presses Mickey into the door while he unlocks the handle, and Mickey catches his lips as soon as he turns his head back to him. 

“Thought you didn’t like kissing in private,” Ian murmurs between kisses. “Thought you only _kissed for an audience.”_

“I _don’t_ like kissing,” Mickey argues, weakly, as they finally stumble through the door together.

The mixed signals are glaringly obvious. 

“Sure you don’t,” Ian mumbles, kicking the door shut behind them. “No audience up here, Mick.”

Mickey smiles against Ian’s lips. He tilts his head, and starts to kiss harder, while Ian makes another attempt at speaking. 

“Unless you’re _filming_ this—”

_Kiss._

_“—_ without telling me—”

_Kiss._

“—seems like you just _like_ kissing me.”

Ian can feel that Mickey is still smiling, and it makes his stomach flutter; to know that he’s having fun with this. 

He pushes at Ian’s chest and walks him backwards through the loft, until the backs of Ian’s legs hit the edge of the couch.

Ian isn’t about to pass up a clear invitation. If Mickey wants to fool around on the fucking couch, then Ian is _happy_ to fool around on the fucking couch.

He wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist and falls back until he’s sitting down, pulling Mickey down onto his lap. Without even a second of hesitation, Mickey crashes over him like a fucking wave, and his eagerness is rather—well, it’s fucking arousing.

The amount of times that Ian has imagined a moment like this makes the real thing feel almost _surreal_. And, no. It may not be much. They’re making out like fucking kids, acting like two hormone-fueled teenagers at best, but it feels _good._

It feels good to make out with someone who Ian genuinely _feels_ something for. 

And it feels good that the person in question is kissing back with just as much enthusiasm. 

Especially for a guy who _doesn’t like to kiss._

In terms of calling someone’s bluff, Ian has really outdone himself with this. 

Because, _yeah._

Mickey kisses with excitement; with hands grazing through Ian’s hair, and grappling down his arms. He kisses with parted lips and soft moans; the sort of tempting, enticing sounds that send a shiver down Ian’s spine.

And this time feels different.

Because, this time, they’re alone. 

This time, Ian isn’t getting startled by an unexpected kiss, or having a wasted make out session up against the lounge’s pool table.

He’s sober and he wants him. So badly.

He wants anything that Mickey is willing to give him; anything that Mickey wants _from_ him.

And, it’s clear that Mickey wants _something,_ by the way his hands are fumbling around to the front of Ian’s shirt. He unbuttons it swiftly, until he’s able to peel it off Ian’s shoulders, and— _fuck,_ Ian can feel himself getting hard.

He obviously has no idea where the fuck they’re going with this. He has no idea where the fuck they’re going with _anything—_ but Mickey’s hands are sliding down his chest, and the push and glide of Mickey’s tongue in his mouth feels like a fucking dream.

And, _fuck,_ he’s been dying to get his hands on Mickey like this for well over a month, now, as he pulls up Mickey's shirt from where it's tucked into his jeans. He slides his fingers beneath the fabric and up his back, pressing against soft skin and strong muscles.

Ian never, ever, _fucking ever_ wants to stop touching him.

“You gonna admit it?” Ian whispers, breaking their kiss just enough to tug Mickey’s bottom lip gently between his teeth. “That you like kissing me?”

Mickey hums, pressing their foreheads together and taking a moment to breathe. He hovers over Ian’s mouth, fingers stroking just above his belt, through the fuzzy hair that trails down beneath his jeans. 

It’s the _worst_ kind of teasing, and Ian wants to fucking scream, because he _knows_ that Mickey is doing this on purpose _._

There’s no fucking doubt about that in Ian’s mind, as Mickey very deliberately licks into his mouth, stroking across his tongue and pulling back the second Ian tries to kiss back. 

Ian’s stomach feels like it’s doing somersaults, over and over and over again, and Mickey has the audacity to _laugh_ at him when he can’t hold back the small moan that rolls out from the back of his throat.

“ _Shut up,”_ Ian says through an exhale, although there’s absolutely no bite to his tone.

“I do like it,” Mickey admits, suddenly, as his fingers continue to run back and forth across Ian’s lower belly. “I like that you don’t expect shit from me.”

Even in a haze of arousal, Ian becomes a little more focused when he hears Mickey’s words. 

Did Ryan _expect_ things from Mickey? Did guys from Mickey’s past expect things from him, too? 

Ian knows that feeling well, and he would never in a million fucking years ever want to make someone else feel that way. 

“I don’t expect _anything_ from you,” Ian says, softly. “We can stop, Mick. Just tell me—”

“Don’t wanna stop,” Mickey says, cutting him off. “Feels different with you. Good.”

Fuck. Ian can’t put into words how _good_ it feels, to know that Mickey is enjoying this, to know that Mickey trusts him, and wants more.

And he wants it _with him._

The look in Mickey’s eyes leaves Ian feeling overwhelmed in a thousand different ways, and when he leans in for another kiss, it feels like Mickey’s entire body melts against him. 

And then, as the universe continues to smash into Ian’s very questionable love life like a wrecking ball, comes an incessant banging at Mickey’s door. 

Ian is fully prepared to ignore it, until the door—clearly unlocked—swings open, and then it’s an anticlimactic mess of Nessa and Sandy apologizing, as Mickey promptly jumps up from Ian’s lap.

“ _Fuck,”_ Mickey grumbles, pulling down his button-down where it’s bunched up along his back. 

This truly is a fucking tragedy, if Ian ever experienced one. He reaches across the couch for his shirt, and proceeds to put it back on while wallowing in silent misery.

“Shit, _sorry_. We wouldn’t have come up, but—Ian, there’s some old dude downstairs asking for you,” Nessa says. “He won’t leave, and I didn’t know if I should tell you, or call the cops on his ass. Says he's your dad?”

Nessa, for the most part, seems unfazed by their current predicament. 

Which makes sense, probably. 

As far as she’s aware, Ian and Mickey have been together for a few weeks now, and finding Mickey straddling Ian’s lap in the middle of the loft is probably not all that alarming to her.

Sandy, on the other hand, is looking at them with an eyebrow raised.

Because, well. 

Sandy knows they’re not _actually_ dating. 

“Hate to break up whatever you’ve got going on here,” Sandy says, as she continues to eye them suspiciously, with her lips curving upwards into a smirk. 

Mickey rubs awkwardly at the corner of his mouth, while Ian stands up to finish buttoning his shirt. 

“Fucking Frank,” Ian mutters under his breath. 

Because, who the fuck else would it be?

It was only a matter of time before Frank showed his ugly fucking face at Rhythm Recall. And, of course— _of fucking course_ —it would be tonight.

“You were right to come get me,” Ian says, doing his best to muster up a very basic level of professionalism. He heads to the doorway where Nessa and Sandy are waiting. “I’ll call the cops if I need to. And I give you _full_ permission to call the cops in the future.”

In fact, he recommends it. Maybe he’ll even make it a rule, because the _last_ damn thing Ian needs is Frank sniffing around on a regular basis. 

Ian meets Mickey’s eyes as he steps into the hallway, and Mickey almost looks conflicted. 

They stare at each other for a brief moment, as if neither of them quite know what to say.

But then, Mickey says, “Gonna come down for a drink, anyway.”

And it’s definitely _not_ what Ian was expecting.

Mickey smiles, just enough, and with a pleasant and familiar flutter in his belly, Ian smiles back.

* * *

Unpleasant family affairs have always been somewhat a given, while living with the curse of the Gallagher name.

And, although they all moved far away from Frank, they can't exactly control when Frank comes _looking_ for them.

It was only a matter of time, once Frank discovered that, with Clayton's death, came a large sum of money.

“Well, _look_ at this! As I live and breathe, my own flesh and blood—owner of a cushy, gentrified bitch bar. Inherited _millions_ and didn’t even think to drop his dear ol’ dad a fucking _dime!”_

“Jesus, Frank,” Ian scoffs. “First of all, you’re not my dad. _Remember?_ Second of all, what the fuck are you even doing here?”

“You couldn’t even offer me something for the _heartbreak?_ The crushing realization that my Monica screwed Clayton? Your mother—fucking ungrateful as she was—”

“Save the sob story,” he says, cutting Frank off as he rolls his eyes. “I never owed you a damn thing, Frank. Go waste your energy on someone willing to buy into your bullshit.”

“ _Jesus!”_ Frank shouts, throwing a bottle of beer to the ground. “You kids left me to fucking _rot_ back on the South Side.”

“Funny how that works, isn’t it?” Ian snaps. “I’ll write you a check for $1,000 if you agree to get the fuck out of here, okay?”

“Not _okay._ What the fuck do you take me for? I want $10,000. None of this cheapskate shit that you’re trying to pull.”

Ian shrugs. He folds his arms over his chest as he counters, “$800.”

“You can’t go _down!”_ Frank shouts. 

“$750,” Ian says. “Offer will either expire or continue to decrease, depending on how generous I’m _feeling.”_

“Fucking—” Frank mumbles, staring empty daggers into Ian’s eyes. “ _Fine!”_

Ian nods and smiles as he holds a check up against the building, writing out the $750 total. 

He hands it to Frank with a haughty grin, and Frank rips it out of his hand before heading on his way.

Good motherfucking riddance.

Mickey is standing at the door when Ian turns around, eyebrows raised as he nods in Frank's direction, watching him stumble drunkenly down the street.

“So. Your dad?” Mickey asks.

“I’d use the word, _‘dad,’_ loosely,” Ian says. “Or—uncle, technically? Not really worthy of any real parenting label. We just call him _Frank.”_

“Fair enough," Mickey says with a chuckle.

Except, no, it's not really fair. At all.

Of all fucking nights, and of all fucking moments, why did they have to get interrupted _tonight?_

“I’m—sorry,” Ian hesitates, not sure how to proceed with the conversation. “For, um. Unexpected family interruptions.”

Mickey shakes his head and shrugs, like he’s brushing it off as no big deal. 

Ian can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. 

But he's already decided that he's going to kill Frank, for destroying a moment that he’s pretty fucking certain was _going somewhere._

Instead, here's Ian, striking out. Again.

“Sandy just challenged me to a dart tournament,” Mickey says, suddenly. He holds up a glass of cold beer in one hand, and a dart in the other. “And, y'know. I could use someone else with actual aim to be my teammate” 

Mickey looks awkward, almost, like he's afraid that Ian is going to say no. 

As if Ian would say no to _anything_ with Mickey.

He'd probably sit and stare at a wall with him for six fucking hours, with the way he's been feeling about him lately.

"You saying I have aim?" Ian asks, with a smile. 

"Calm down," Mickey grumbles. "I'm sayin' you can throw a fuckin' dart."

Ian walks up to Mickey and snatches the dart from his hand, reaching out to hold the door open for him.

"After you, boyfriend," Ian says. 

But Mickey doesn't go inside, right away.

He stares at Ian for a few seconds, and before Ian has a chance to ask him what he's doing, Mickey leans in and kisses him.

It's soft, compared to most of their previous encounters; slow and gentle, like everything freezes around them while their lips are pressed together.

When Mickey finally pulls back, Ian chases his mouth like he's charged by some kind of embarrassing fucking magnet.

Ian's heart is fucking pounding in his chest as he asks, "Uh, what was that for?"

He feels kind of tingly, stuck in the syrupy sweetness of a soft kiss that he absolutely wasn't expecting.

Mickey shrugs. He smiles and grabs the dart back from Ian's hand, entering through the doorway without another word.

It's funny, and maybe a little bit scary; the way Ian feels so completely and resolutely swept off his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	6. Whatever the fuck you say, Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian jumps to an unnecessary conclusion, and Mickey takes things to a different kind of high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for your support on this so far! It has been so encouraging, and I'm really happy that people are excited about it. I love reading your comments so much, even if I don't always get a chance to reply to them (or reply to them several weeks after the fact). 
> 
> FYI (+mild spoilers)- I know the tags on this fic are already self-explanatory, but I'd just like to point out that there is recreational drug use (nothing more than marijuana in this fic, folks) as well as sexual content in this chapter. 
> 
> I won't mention specifics again, but just know to expect more of that at least intermittently now as the story goes on.

Chapter 6

Ian doesn’t sleep particularly well, once he gets home late on Friday night. 

It’s about 1:30 a.m. when he finally crawls into bed—marginally early compared to some of his more recent all-nighters. 

But, it’s not restful, and it’s not relaxing.

He tosses and turns, and sees almost every hour pass by on the clock.

And he can’t stop checking his phone.

It’s fucking maddening, but his mind won’t stop _racing._

Multiple times, he considers texting Mickey.

And maybe he’s more than a little bit surprised that Mickey didn’t text him first. 

No teasing, flirty goodnight texts. 

No texts hoping he got home okay.

Just a whole lot of nothing. 

And Ian doesn’t know what to say.

The entire process of typing and deleting texts feels redundant, now that Ian finds himself doing it so often. 

Yet, here he is, desperately trying to find the right words to say, without making a fool of himself. 

He just wants to talk to him. 

But it’s much easier said than done. 

He’s afraid to sound clingy or weird, and everything he types sounds so fucking stupid _._

Just a bunch of pointless messages, that he knows he’s better off keeping to himself. 

For example—

_Hey, are you awake?_

_What’s up? Are you sleeping?_

_Ugh. I can’t sleep_

_I hope you had fun tonight_

_I’m sorry again about Frank_

_Did I take things too far tonight?_

Ian feels a pathetic tightness in his chest, once he deletes his final attempt at a message. 

Their night didn’t end badly, although it wasn’t the way Ian would have preferred.

They played two games of darts against Sandy and her friends, each had one beer, and then called it a night.

A part of Ian _maybe_ hoped that he’d be extended another invite to stay over, but it didn’t come up again, as everyone said their goodbyes.

And, no, that’s not a big deal. 

Except, on any other night, Mickey normally would have texted him by now.

Ian really doesn’t know what that means. 

There’s a rising degree of _sadness_ stirring within him, and he’s trying so hard to push it aside. 

He doesn’t need that right now, and what fucking good would it do; to mope around over something like a fake relationship?

It’s just. Parts of it are starting to feel so real.

Jesus, Ian needs to get a fucking grip. 

Instead of texting Mickey, he decides to occupy his mind with some very misguided research.

He pulls up the Google app, and thinks about how to properly put his thoughts into words.

And then, he types—

_Can a landlord date a tenant?_

Truly, Ian doesn’t know what kind of results he was expecting. 

But, as it turns out, most of the responses weigh heavily on a resounding _fuck no_.

A whole slew of results turn up, narrowed down to specific variations of relationship dynamics.

Whether romantic, sexual, or both; the landlord-tenant relationship appears to be rather frowned upon, in an unspoken-but-forbidden kind of way. 

Yeah, well. Whatever.

Ian’s scenario with Mickey is unique on nearly every level, and there aren’t any examples even remotely close to compare it to. 

As he gets sucked down the rabbit hole of opinions, discussions, and arguments, he becomes more and more uncomfortable. 

People fucking suck, and most of the results are horribly cringe-worthy. 

There’s one incredibly graphic story about a man who started fucking two of his male tenants, who also happened to be roommates, and—yeah. It reads more like a fucking porn novel, than an actual discussion post. 

Taking things one step further, Ian finds that there are an _alarming_ amount of responses geared towards receiving sexual favors from tenants who are unable to pay their rent. 

It makes Ian’s skin crawl.

Having been on the other side of that sort of situation, he knows what it’s like, even if his own experiences weren’t exactly for rent purposes.

To think of himself now, fortunate enough to be in his current position—how could _anyone_ ever abuse their power by asking that of someone?

It disgusts him. 

And he really needs to stop reading about it. 

So, he moves on to other search results.

Apart from the forum-style discussions, there are also several legitimate looking articles. They focus mostly on explaining _why_ this type of relationship is always inappropriate.

The top result reads—

_“The relationship between tenants and their landlord is like any other. In other words, DO NOT pursue your tenants for a romantic relationship. By law, tenants are protected from any sort of sexual harassment. Any unwanted sexual behaviors a property manager directs toward a tenant could lead to serious legal issues.”_

Ian rereads it several times.

The article in question, along with Mickey’s uncharacteristic silence, is enough to send Ian into a mild panic.

Could Mickey actually be feeling that way?

The thought makes Ian feel sick to his stomach.

Ian never pushed anything on Mickey—did he? 

He thinks back on all of their interactions from throughout the night, _and_ all of their previous nights, but comes up blank. 

He never coerced Mickey into anything.

At all.

He’s fucking _positive_ that he didn’t. 

And, so much of their suggestive or flirtatious interactions had been initiated by Mickey. 

Come to think of it, last night in particular, Ian remembers _asking_ Mickey if he wanted to stop.

But he fucking didn’t. He wanted to keep going.

Unless he felt pressured to respond that way, or felt like he had to go along with it.

Wow. Ouch. 

Ian must be fucking idiot—how did he not see this before now? 

And it makes sense, doesn’t it? Ian Gallagher, the twenty-four year old, perpetually single landlord; desperate enough to throw himself on his tenant by using said tenant’s deplorable ex-boyfriend as an excuse.

He finally sets his phone down and curls in on himself, pulling the covers up over his head. 

After a night that Ian thought felt so right, he really should have seen this coming.

* * *

Ian gets about four hours of sleep, at best.

He’s supposed to play a set tonight, but it’s the last thing he feels like doing, right now. He calls it off shortly after waking up, and he _really_ hopes that V can hunt down a last minute replacement. 

It’s hard for her to be angry at her _boss,_ but V does sound unmistakably disappointed. Ian apologizes profusely, but makes up a lie about having some kind of nasty stomach virus.

Nobody’s going to want him around, assuming that he’s contagious with something gross.

He feels guilty, but Rhythm Recall doesn’t seem like an especially comforting place to be, right now. In fact, he’s more or less dreading the next time he needs to show his face anywhere near his building, period.

By noon, Ian is nearing full blown devastation, when Mickey still hasn’t texted him.

It feels like all of his late-night suspicions are being completely validated, and it hurts. 

Ian really, really just wanted Mickey to like him.

Even just as a friend.

* * *

Ian must fall asleep at some point, wrapped up in a blanket on his couch. He’s woken up to the sound of his phone going off, as it pulls him into a stream of consciousness. He is _dangerously_ close to throwing it against the wall.

When he doesn’t answer, it begins ringing again.

He groans and sits upright, glancing and feeling around for it. When he doesn’t find it quickly, he reaches down in between the couch cushions until he feels it vibrating against his hand.

Lucky guess.

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, Lip’s name is flashing across its screen.

Ian answers and switches the call to speaker mode.

“What’s up?” Ian asks, his voice sounding relatively monotonous.

“Why don’t you tell me? Are you okay, man?” 

Lip sounds nervous, and Ian gets it.

Sometimes it’s not a good thing, when Ian falls off the grid.

But this really isn’t like that.

This time, he’s just sad. 

He’s sad and embarrassed, and trying to figure out how to handle an impossible situation. 

“I’m—stomach flu, I think,” Ian says. 

Honestly, it’s easier than telling Lip the truth.

But it’s believable, too.

“Shit, okay. I’m sorry,” Lip offers. “Feel better, okay? Do you need anything?”

As a matter of fact, yes. Ian needs a clue, a miracle, and maybe someone to hit him on the head with a baseball bat. 

But, instead, Ian says, “I’m all set, but thanks.”

Lip pauses and Ian waits expectantly, but if he was about to say something else, it seems that he decides against it.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Lip ends up saying. “Rest up, okay?”

Yeah, sure.

The odds of getting any genuine amount of rest seem highly unlikely, but Ian will do his best.

* * *

At 8 p.m. on Saturday night, Ian caves.

Whether or not Mickey texts him back, it doesn’t matter. He just needs to say _something._

 **_Ian:_ ** _Hi… I just want you to know I’m sorry. I’m not going to spam you with texts but I just needed to say that. You can text or call me if you want but you don’t have to._

It’s stupid.

But, at least he actually sends it.

Within just a few seconds, Ian sees the message turn from blue to green. 

Beneath Ian’s text bubble, in red colored font, are the words, _“Not Delivered.”_

Oh. Okay.

There was at least a small part of Ian that hoped he was just being incredibly dramatic, but. 

Maybe he was right.

While Ian stares blankly at his phone screen, the lump in his throat becomes nearly unbearable.

He really doesn’t know how the hell he managed to get himself into this mess. 

Even more, he doesn’t know if there’s a way to actually get himself out of it, now.

He thinks about texting Sandy. 

He thinks about pouring his heart out to Lip. 

He thinks about selling the entire Rhythm Recall building, changing his name, and moving to another state, completely.

Of course, he’s not going to do any of those things. 

Not yet, anyway.

It’s just—after getting to know Mickey over the last two months, and after spending the last few weeks doing whatever it is that they’re doing, would Mickey _really_ have blocked his number? 

Could Ian really have misread everything between them that badly? 

* * *

Ian takes a shower around 9 p.m. 

After a miserably unproductive day, it’s about time for him to go the fuck back to sleep.

His studio apartment feels exceptionally claustrophobic, tonight. He’s spent the better part of the last twenty hours moving from his bed to the couch, and back again. They’re essentially in the same room—an open-floor layout with the bed against a wall and the couch just several feet away, across from a coffee table and small entertainment center. 

On the far wall opposite the bed stands a kitchen area, complete with basic necessities and nothing more. The bathroom is beside the kitchen, and that just about sums up the entire apartment.

Although it’s not much, Ian usually feels far more content than he does right now.

He decides to make at least something light to eat before calling it a night—maybe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or something equally as simple. 

While he’s spreading peanut butter on a slice of plain, white bread, he hears a knock at his door.

To say he’s bewildered would be an understatement.

Ian doesn’t get unexpected visitors at his apartment. It just doesn’t happen. He lives on the upper floor of a duplex, and he generally isn’t inviting anyone over for movie nights or parties. 

Suitable as the studio may be, it’s just too small for that kind of thing.

There isn’t a single person in his life that wouldn’t text or call him before showing up at his door. 

Except maybe when he orders a pizza, or occasionally something from fucking DoorDash.

Even his landlord and downstairs neighbor text him if necessary, as opposed to just showing up.

He really considers not answering it—until he hears a voice calling out, “Ian? You in there?” followed by another round of knocking.

The voice sounds an awful lot like Mickey’s.

Ian swears his heart _stops beating_ for a full twenty seconds, before he realizes that he needs to answer the fucking door.

He walks to the door and unlocks it, opening it just slightly to peek through. 

Sure enough, Mickey is standing there, and he’s holding a black, oval canister. Ian stares at him blankly, before finally opening the door the rest of the way.

“What—what’re you doing here?” Ian asks, awkwardly, as he rubs at the back of his neck.

Mickey holds up the container and shrugs.

“Heard you were sick,” Mickey says. “Brought you some soup from this sandwich place. Dunno what the fuck kinda soup you like, so I got chicken noodle. ‘Cause, I don’t know. That’s what people fuckin’ eat when they’re sick, right?”

Ian feels like he’s been transported into another dimension. What the actual fuck is happening?

“Um, yeah,” Ian replies. 

He holds out his hands to take the soup from Mickey, who takes the liberty of stepping inside without an invitation. 

“Your brother’s tattoo appointment was today,” Mickey says, somewhat absently, as he glances around Ian’s apartment. “Kinda thought you’d come along. Also thought you were playin’ your gig tonight, but Lip said you got sick.”

“I—yeah. Stomach flu, or something,” Ian lies. After a pause, he adds, “And I forgot Lip’s appointment was today.”

Ian is surprised that Lip didn’t mention it during their phone call earlier, but he probably just wanted to let Ian hang up to get some rest.

He _did_ want to be there for Lip’s appointment, originally. But, yeah, he completely fucking forgot about it. 

Plus, under the circumstances, he wouldn’t have anticipated Mickey actually _wanting_ him there.

“Think he really likes it. Thought he was gonna send you a pic,” Mickey says. “I woulda taken one, but, y’know. Broke my fuckin’ phone and shit.”

Ian nearly fucking gapes at him.

“You _broke_ your fucking phone?” Ian repeats, laughing over an exhale. “When the fuck did that happen?” 

“After you left last night,” Mickey begins. “It fell outta my pocket when I was lookin’ for the loft key. Dropped it down the fuckin’ stairs.”

Ian legitimately can’t believe this. 

He walks through the apartment to the kitchen, sets the soup on the counter, and finds that Mickey has followed behind him.

Mickey leans back against the refrigerator, and Ian turns to offer him a tentative smile.

“Thanks for this, Mick. I gotta be honest, though—” Ian trails off, searching for the words. He settles on, “Jesus, I’m a fucking idiot.”

Because, really, it’s the most fitting thing he can come up with. 

Mickey raises both eyebrows with wide eyes, and it’s more than clear that he has absolutely no idea where Ian is going with this.

When Mickey says nothing, Ian continues.

“Okay, look. First of all, I’m not sick,” Ian admits. “Second of all, I had myself convinced that you fucking hated me. Because—I didn’t know your phone broke.”

Mickey continues to stare at him.

“You thought I—hated you?” he asks after a few agonizing seconds of silence. “What the fuck for?”

“ _Fuck,_ I don’t know,” Ian says. “You didn’t text me, and you—usually do. And I finally texted you like an hour ago, but I got an error message. I thought—”

“You thought what?” Mickey asks. “That I fuckin’ _blocked_ you, or somethin’?”

Yes, for fuck’s sake, that’s _exactly_ what Ian thought. He decides to answer honestly, despite how badly it bruises his ego. 

“Yeah, Mick. I did.”

Mickey frowns, suddenly, like he’s suddenly taking it a little more seriously. He shakes his head, and the look on his face is incredibly genuine.

“Sorry, man,” Mickey says. “Guess I can see why you thought that.”

Ian nods, shrugging his hands into his pockets.

“For the record—” Mickey says, pauses, and continues, “—it would take a whole fuckin’ lot for me to hate you.”

Ian swallows around the pathetically unnecessary lump in his throat. 

It’s the kind of reassurance that Ian didn’t know he needed, after such a mentally exhausting day.

“That’s good to know,” Ian says. “I got myself so freaked out, thinking you were angry with me, or like I maybe pressured you—”

“Pressured me _how?”_ Mickey interrupts. “Come on, Gallagher. We’ve been playin’ this song and dance for weeks. Both of us. You never pressured me into a damn thing.”

Well, to be completely fucking fair, _that’s what Ian had originally thought._

“Okay, so. Just so we’re clear. You _don’t_ wanna sue me for sexual harassment? Or—accuse me of forcing you into either a romantic and/or sexual relationship?”

Mickey stares at him, blankly.

“I gotta be honest,” Mickey says. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about right now.”

Ian smiles, inhaling and exhaling a very deep breath of relief. He owes Mickey an explanation. 

Unfortunately, there’s really no way to have this conversation that isn’t horribly awkward. 

Not to mention, borderline embarrassing.

“Okay, look. It’s this whole landlord-tenant thing, you know?” Ian begins to explain. “I really—I feel like we’re actually friends, but. I mean, I’m also not about to pretend shit hasn’t been happening between us.”

“We _are_ friends,” Mickey says, hesitantly. “Right?”

“ _Yes,”_ Ian says. It immediately feels like another weight has been lifted from his chest. “But I keep feeling like—I don’t know. Like I can’t be your friend because of this whole situation. And I really don’t want that.”

“So, who gives a shit, right?” Mickey says, like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

Maybe it is.

“We’re adults, Ian. Ain’t no rules about who you can or can’t be friends with just ‘cause you own a fuckin’ building. I pay my rent on time, and if I ever don’t, you can give me a fuckin’ notice and eventually evict me if I don’t pay up. That’s how shit works.”

Ian nods, then says, “Sure, but—can you, like, _not_ make me give you a notice? Or evict you? Ever? That shit would be _really_ uncomfortable.”

Mickey snorts.

“You’re too much of a fuckin’ pussy to be a landlord,” he says. “You’re lucky you ain’t got worse tenants than me.”

“You think so? Huh, Lucky me,” Ian says.

He’s happy with how this conversation is unfolding, but there’s still the rather large elephant in the room about the other aspects of their _relationship—_ such as fake dating, real kissing, and Ian’s increasingly hard-to-ignore (and rather consuming) feelings.

They are conveniently side-stepping those particular topics.

“You gotta loosen up, man. I was in your fuckin’ lap last night, and you _really_ think I’m about to sue your ass for _sexual harassment?”_

Okay, Ian takes it back. Maybe they aren’t side-stepping the subject as much as he thought.

“C’mon, Gallagher,” Mickey continues. “We agreed on the fake boyfriend shit. And, we’ve just—been havin’ some fuckin’ fun, right?”

Right. Ian’s been having a lot of fucking fun, actually. And it’s not just about being into Mickey. 

They _are_ becoming good friends, and every time they hang out, Ian finds himself enjoying his company more and more. 

Mickey literally showed up at his apartment tonight, unannounced with a canister of fucking soup, because he heard that he was sick.

How is Ian supposed to combat his growing fondness for Mickey when he’s doing sweet shit like that?

“I’ve been having fun,” Ian says. “Last night—pissing off Ryan? Sharing french fries from your mouth? I mean, what more could I ask for?”

Mickey chuckles, nodding his head. He meets Ian’s eyes, raises an eyebrow, and says, “How ‘bout after? At the loft. That fun for you, too?”

Ian knows he’s blushing before he can even decide how to answer. 

There’s no point in denying it.

“Yeah, Mick,” Ian says, and smiles. “It was fun for me.”

Ian could almost swear that Mickey’s expression softens, just a little, before he catches himself with a smirk, instead.

“Good,” he says, pauses, then shrugs as he adds, “Well, I should—” 

He trails off, but nods his head towards the door. 

It’s not like Ian expected him to stay long. 

He only came to deliver a fucking container of soup, after all. 

Don’t push it, Ian. 

“Okay,” Ian says. “Got any exciting plans for the rest of the night?”

He doesn’t really know why he asks. 

It’s certainly not his business. 

Mickey pulls a face like he’s thinking, and says, “Well—I’m goin’ home to smoke ‘til I’m high enough to fuckin’ pass out for the night,” Mickey says. “How’s that for a wild Saturday night?”

“Riveting,” Ian quips. He smiles and adds, “Thanks, you know, for the soup and everything.”

Ian can’t help it. He wants to ask him to stay. 

“You don’t gotta pretend you’re gonna eat that shit,” Mickey says. “Probably ain’t even good, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Right,” Ian agrees.

Mickey reaches Ian’s door and turns back before opening it. He meets Ian’s eyes, and Ian wonders if he’s about to say something.

And then, Mickey asks, “We’re cool, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Definitely. We’re cool.”

Mickey nods his head, then, sort of as a goodbye, until Ian blurts out, “You can stay—if you want. I mean, you came all the way here. We could order some food—”

 _All the way here?_ Jesus, Ian. Smooth. 

As if walking the several blocks to and from the loft is such a daunting task.

If Mickey notices how stupid that sounded, he doesnt comment on it.

“Guess that's you admitting you ain’t touchin’ that soup, huh?” Mickey says. He smiles, and asks, “You wanna order some real food, then?”

Ian nods, and suggests, “Pizza?”

“Yeah—have ‘em put some extra cheese on it,” Mickey says.

He beelines for Ian’s couch and throws himself down on the cushions. 

It’s a huge fucking relief that Mickey is facing away from him, as he makes himself comfortable and flips on the television.

Because, suddenly, Ian can’t stop smiling.

* * *

It’s sort of a mindfuck, to think that Ian started off this morning feeling so miserable and crushed.

He and Mickey have spent the last hour talking, laughing, and making their way through a large pizza—with extra cheese, of course. They bought two, with plenty of leftovers to spare.

Mickey grabs a beer from the refrigerator while Ian discreetly watches him, although he’s probably being incredibly fucking obvious.

Ian isn’t drinking anything other than Dr. Pepper, which is good enough for tonight. Mickey cracks open beer number three, but it’s clear that he isn’t drinking with the intent of getting drunk. 

He pauses and glances at Ian, as he makes his way back to the couch. He looks like he’s thinking about something, and Ian raises an eyebrow.

“You good to hang for a while?” Mickey asks, setting his beer down on the coffee table. 

Ian stares at him and shrugs. 

He’s having fun, and he really doesn’t want Mickey to leave yet—but he doesn’t want to sound fucking desperate, either. 

“I’d be doing this whether you were here or not,” Ian says.

It’s a lame response.

It’s true that Ian would be lying on his couch one way or another, but he's really struggling to sound nonchalant _without_ also coming off as dismissive. 

He adds, “It’s more fun with you here, though.”

Yeah, okay. That’s better. 

Mickey smiles. 

“Okay—you wanna get high?” he asks, digging through one of his pockets to pull out a small, ziplock bag. He throws the bag onto Ian’s lap. “Rolled that shit earlier.”

Ian picks up the bag and examines its contents—a few joints, rolled expertly and awaiting their inevitable consumption. 

It’s been a few months since he’s smoked weed in any form, and for that reason alone, he figures that he’s long overdue.

He tosses the bag back to Mickey with a grin and says, “Light one up, Mick.”

* * *

Marijuana is just about the only substance—besides alcohol—that Ian cares to dabble with, anymore. And, after nearly twenty-four hours of unbearable (and unnecessary) panic, the idea of smoking himself into a pleasant high was too good to pass up.

Plus, he tolerates it better than alcohol.

Weed isn’t all created equal, though. 

Whenever Ian smokes with someone, or tries a new batch from an unfamiliar source, it almost always affects him a little bit differently. 

And, yeah. That’s kind of normal.

Some strains are designed to hit hard enough to knock you on your ass, while others offer a buzzing spike of energy. Some pump your mind full of creativity, and some get your body ready to run a nonexistent marathon.

And, honestly, this strain? 

Whatever it is, it’s good shit. 

It’s good shit, and it’s pretty fucking potent. 

It’s also making Mickey _touchy_.

They’re sitting together on the couch, and maybe it’s for the convenience of passing the joint back and forth—but if they were any closer, they’d be on top of each other.

Not that Ian’s thinking about such things.

He’s on one end of the couch with Mickey’s back pressed into his side, sprawled out with his legs hanging over the edge. He keeps brushing his knuckles across Ian’s fingers every time they pass the joint back and forth between them. 

And, okay. 

On the subject of Mickey being touchy, Ian is absolutely feeling it, too. There’s an unmistakable spike in his urge to make some kind of move, and he’s torn between knowing he shouldn’t and really, _really_ not giving a fuck.

His typical qualms are pretty much shut off completely, which Ian supposes is sort of the whole fucking point of getting high.

Mickey shifts until he falls back, head landing on the edge of Ian’s thigh as he stretches out the rest of the way on the couch. Mickey looks up at him and smiles, in a way that gets Ian’s heart pounding a little faster. 

There’s no way that Mickey isn’t doing this shit on purpose.

“Hi,” Mickey says.

“Hi,” Ian replies.

He drops his hand down to run it along Mickey’s chest, just because he _fucking feels like it,_ and watches Mickey lick his lips.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, up there?” Mickey asks, reaching up to pass Ian the joint. 

He takes it between his fingers, lifts it to his lips, inhales deeply, and exhales. 

And then, he immediately does it again.

When Ian doesn’t answer Mickey’s question, he grabs for the joint, and says, “How many more hits ‘til you stop fuckin’ around and get on me?”

 _Fuck._ There it is.

He knew this was going to happen.

Or, well. He didn’t know— _but he knew._

Regardless, _right fucking now_ seems to be the ideal answer to Mickey’s question. 

“Put that shit down and fucking find out for yourself,” Ian says. 

Mickey reaches out to drop the joint into an ashtray on the table, and then sits up to scoot himself back into Ian’s lap, somewhat clumsily, until Ian has a lapful of Mickey.

Once they’re face to face, Mickey smiles.

“Wanna fuckin’ kiss you right now,” he says, hooded eyes fixed on Ian’s lips. “If I do—you gonna accuse me of hatin’ you tomorrow?” 

Ian hums, licks his lips, and says, “Depends. You gonna sue me for sexual harassment and coercion?”

Mickey’s thighs are settled on each side of Ian’s hips, knees pressing into the back of the couch, and it’s so fucking hard to focus on anything else.

He presses in closer, leaning in just enough for his mouth to brush lightly against Ian’s lips. He whispers, “ _Absolutely,”_ and bites down gently on Ian’s bottom lip. 

Ian feels a _clench_ in his stomach, and then he’s falling back onto the couch cushions and pulling Mickey down on top of him, and—against any realm of good judgement—they’re sharing kisses between parted lips and eager tongues.

It feels good. Good, good, _so good._ Like his nerves are bursting with fire, as every sensation becomes heightened.

Fuck, it’s winding him up, while the high works to keep him slow and steady.

Mickey’s body feels weighty on top of him, and Ian feels like he’s fucking floating. His lips are tingling, and every kiss feels like a shock of pleasure; like electricity is buzzing between every movement of their mouths.

At the same time, their kisses are _slow._

There’s no rush and no urgency; just tasting and touching and _feeling_.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ you taste good,” Mickey whispers. He starts to kiss down Ian’s neck, and Ian tips back his head and gasps. Mickey says, “ _Want more of you,”_ as if he doesn’t even realize it.

Ian grabs onto his arm and squeezes.

"You can have more of me,” Ian manages to say. “Whatever the fuck you want, Mickey.”

God, he means it.

It’s relaxing like this. No worries.

No overthinking. 

Just the slow burning simmer of their bodies, pressing together in ways that almost feel too good to be real.

“Whatever the fuck I want, huh?” Mickey teases, teeth grazing Ian’s throat. 

“Whatever the fuck you want,” Ian repeats, sliding his fingers through Mickey’s short hair. 

“Whatever the fuck I want—” Mickey repeats, _again,_ and Ian can’t help it when he starts laughing.

“You said that already,” Ian says, smiling through his laughter. 

Mickey detaches himself from Ian’s neck, and asks, “Said what already?”

Ian looks up at him, and it’s a little bit overwhelming, to have Mickey lying on top of his body like this. His mind feels hazy and lofty, and Mickey’s eyes are fucking hypnotizing.

“I—don’t know what the fuck we’re talking about,” Ian says, and then he’s _laughing_ again, and Mickey starts laughing, too.

“You’re so fuckin’ high. And—” Mickey pauses, shifting his hips slightly, until Ian feels like choking on a combination of arousal and the dryness of his own mouth. Mickey gasps, and adds, “So fuckin’ _hard.”_

Jesus, yeah. He is. He has been.

So is Mickey.

Ian sort of feels like he’s hitting a peak, and it’s kind of wild; like he and Mickey are locked away together in a dreamy bubble of smoke and good feelings.

And then, _better feelings,_ when Mickey starts to push down into Ian’s lap as if there aren’t multiple layers of fabric between the two of them.

Holy fuck, _it feels good._

Considering his current state, it feels like _too much—_ like it’s way too fucking easy to imagine the real fucking thing, with Mickey rocking his ass down against Ian’s cock.

Just because he fucking can. 

Ian’s head may feel foggy, but there’s nothing unclear about Mickey’s intentions, right now. 

His eyes are closed, biting down on his bottom lip as he works his hips, and Ian can’t stop fucking watching him. 

_“Mickey,”_ Ian says, softly, caught somewhere between half incoherent pleasure and half actually trying to get Mickey’s attention.

Mickey responds with a breathless, _“Ian,”_ as he pushes down harder against him. He slides a hand under Ian’s shirt and up his chest, bunching the fabric up near his neck, caught under his armpits. He flattens his palm out on Ian’s chest to steady himself, and very unceremoniously shoves his other hand down the front of his sweats.

Ian is still _watching him,_ and he feels like he can’t fucking breathe. 

Every time Ian moves, his cock slides along the crease of Mickey’s ass, and if that wasn’t enough to get Ian closer—Mickey’s got his dick in his fucking hand now, and he’s working himself off in time with their bodies. 

They may not be skin to skin, but the pressure is enough. It’s hot— _so fucking hot—_ no matter how many layers are between them. 

Ian rocks up with every motion, sluggish but just right, and he _moans_ with every roll of Mickey’s hips. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

It builds quickly, from there, with Mickey riding so perfectly in his lap—sweatpants be damned—because Mickey’s ass is soft and rubbing down against him with more than enough friction to push Ian over the edge. 

So, _so_ far over the edge.

It’s the weed, without question, that makes it feel like a fucking freight train when Ian starts to come. It hits him hard, with little warning, and he makes a sound that may or may not prompt a 9-1-1 call from his downstairs neighbor.

His mind goes completely fucking blank; white hot and fuzzy as his muscles tighten, as he digs his fingers into Mickey’s hips and jerks up harder against him. Mickey falls forward over his chest, hand trapped between their bodies and furiously working to finish himself off. 

With Ian’s shirt still half-lifted, he can feel the _wet_ of Mickey’s cock rubbing against his belly; knows Mickey is about to come all over his fucking stomach even with his eyes shut tightly. 

Except, he really wants to watch. 

It’s an absolute bitch to open his eyes and _focus_ —he’s fucking rolling through euphoric bliss, shaking and gasping as he tries to steady his breathing. And his heartbeat. And his body.

He feels absolutely boneless, but then Mickey starts fucking _panting_ , and Ian manages to slide his arms up around Mickey’s waist, beneath his shirt. He doesn’t really need to help—Mickey’s _definitely_ got this shit covered—but he wants to touch him; hold him through it and make sure it’s fucking good for him, too. 

The jerk of Mickey’s wrist gets clumsy in the same moment that he leans forward to close his lips over Ian’s. 

It’s barely a kiss—mostly just Mickey’s shaky breaths against Ian’s mouth, until he gasps out, _“Ian, fuck,”_ as his entire body goes tense.

That’s his tell, clearly, when he begins to come in warm spurts against Ian’s belly.

When it’s over—when Mickey’s hips begin to slow down, he slumps completely against Ian with his face buried between Ian’s neck and shoulder, struggling to catch his breath. Ian feels him smile against his neck, and it tickles a little bit; enough to send Ian into another fit of laughter that he’s absolutely going to blame on the weed.

Along with the fact that he just came in his fucking sweatpants.

That was the fucking weed, too. 

* * *

Ian thinks they must have both fallen asleep, for at least a good twenty minutes. He’s still got a mild high going once he becomes aware of himself again, prompted by Mickey peeling himself off his body.

They look at each other as Ian sits up beside him, but there’s nothing awkward or panicky about it. Just heavy-lidded eyes and soft smiles, and a pool of warmth settling deep within the pit of Ian’s stomach.

And, because he feels completely fucking sated and maybe a little bit like he’s flying high somewhere up on cloud nine, he leans in and kisses Mickey gently on the lips. He runs his fingers across Mickey’s cheek, and feels him smiling into it.

It’s a little bit too intimate—mellow and sweet in a way that their encounters generally aren’t.

Except like right now, when they are.

When they separate, Mickey chuckles and dips his head down to lean into Ian’s shoulder, almost like he’s embarrassed.

And it’s so fucking _cute._

“Oh, you gonna get shy on me now, Milkovich?” Ian asks, poking his side. 

As he slowly begins to feel a little more sober, he’s becoming acutely aware that he needs to change his fucking clothes.

And maybe also take a shower. 

Mickey lifts his head and shoves at Ian’s shoulder, grumbling, “Fuck off, Gallagher,” as he stands up from the couch.

He stretches his arms up over his head, with his clothes situated and back in place, while Ian watches him. This time, he’s absolutely not hiding it, and it feels like something is sparking hot between them, when Mickey meets his eyes. 

Mickey licks at the corner of his mouth and takes a step back, keeping his eyes locked on Ian’s until he turns to walk over to the kitchen. 

He grabs a bag of chips from Ian’s counter, and digs in.

“Well shit, help yourself,” Ian says.

Mickey gives him the finger and smirks, replying, “What I’m doin’, ain’t it?”

Ian nods. 

While Mickey is busy fulfilling his munchie cravings, Ian decides to take a bathroom break. 

Maybe not a shower, but he could at least go for a change of clothes and a minute to clean himself up. 

“Be back, Mick,” he mumbles as he walks over to his dresser to grab some fresh clothes. 

His high has nearly worn off, and he wouldn’t mind smoking again, once he’s feeling a little bit less disgusting.

* * *

By 1 a.m. they’re sitting on Ian’s bed, playing a half-assed version of Cards Against Humanity. 

There’s no winner or loser, so much as they’re just fucking around and making each other laugh with stupid card combinations. Ian is starting to feel a mild buzz again, and most notably, he really hasn’t laughed this hard in a long fucking time.

Mickey plays another card combo, and Ian leans over to read what it says—

 _Having problems with_ _Mufasa’s death scene_ _?_

 _Try_ _Hakuna Matata, motherfucker_ _!_

It sends Ian into a fucking outburst of hysterics, until he’s got tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. Mickey’s in the middle of a hit when he starts laughing, too, until he laughs himself into a pretty spectacular coughing fit. 

Ian brings him a bottle of water.

They play a few more rounds, until the novelty begins to wear off, and Ian loses interest.

For a few minutes, they fall into a quiet, stupor-like daze. Everything just feels _good._

“Want more?” Mickey asks, eventually, breaking Ian from his daze.

Ian turns his head to look at him. He doesn’t know what Mickey’s question is referring to, but the answer is probably yes.

When Ian doesn’t answer, Mickey clarifies, “You want another hit?”

Oh. Hell, yeah.

Of fucking course he does.

Ian takes three hits, to be exact, relishing in the light and airy sensation that soars through his body as he exhales the third time.

“Okay, greedy,” Mickey grumbles, making grabby hands. “Pass that shit back before I make you reimburse me.”

“Reimburse,” Ian repeats. “Big word.”

Mickey snorts. He takes a hit, blows smoke at Ian’s face, and chuckles when Ian squints and scrunches up his nose.

Another brief period of relaxed silence falls between them, until Ian’s brain kicks itself into a high-driven spiral. 

“Thinking about something you said last night,” Ian says. “About people expecting shit from you.”

“What an impressive memory,” Mickey says.

“I just—wondered what you meant by that,” Ian says, quietly.

Mickey sighs, and Ian almost wonders if he’s not going to answer. He certainly isn’t obligated to, if he doesn’t want to. 

Ian is about to change the subject, when Mickey finally speaks up.

“Meant that a lotta guys wanted shit from me that I didn’t wanna fuckin’ give ‘em,” Mickey says, candidly. “There’s a lot I haven’t done, y’know?”

Ian nods, drumming his fingers against the mattress. He asks, “Like what?” after thinking about it for a moment. It’s personal, but Mickey seems down to discuss it.

“Like—I only recently came out, remember?” Mickey reminds him, although Ian certainly didn’t forget. “Mostly just used to get my dick sucked, or I’d fuck guys, sometimes. S’all I ever did with Ryan. Bitch was constantly trying to get me to bottom for him, or blow him. You know what the words, _‘Fuck no,’_ mean, Gallagher? ‘Cause apparently they’re hard to fuckin’ understand.”

“Fuck no means fuck no,” Ian says. “Really doesn’t seem like a hard code to crack.”

But, he gets it. He’s been there.

They’re quiet, then, as they pass the joint back and forth. Suddenly, Mickey says, “I know I’m fuckin’ gay, I’m just not a well-practiced gay.”

Ian replays the words in his head before he bursts out laughing. Again. He accidently drops the joint on the bed and mutters, _“Shit—fuck,”_ as he scrambles to find it. 

Once he does, he hands it to Mickey.

“What the fuck is a ‘ _well-practiced_ gay?’” Ian asks, chuckling as the words leave his mouth. 

Mickey shrugs, pokes Ian in the shoulder, and says, “You, I think.”

While the term _well-practiced_ could arguably be used to describe promiscuity, Ian is certain that Mickey doesn’t mean it that way. It’s more just pointing out the fact that Ian has done shit that Mickey clearly hasn’t had a chance to try.

Ian hums, and opts to respond with a joke, anyway.

“Is that your way of calling me _slutty?”_

Mickey frowns and smacks Ian’s shoulder.

“ _No,_ that’s not my—” he trails off and glances at Ian, noticing the grin on his face. “Fuck off, man. I wouldn’t say that shit to you.”

Ian’s fingers start to feel tingly, and his body starts to loosen up as he lets himself slide down the headboard.

“Feelin’ that shit?” Mickey asks, grinning down at him. 

Ian closes his eyes and murmurs, “Fuck, yeah.”

He forces himself to think about their conversation. It’s not necessarily a subject that he wants to drop, just yet.

“Who gives a fuck if you’re not _well-practiced?”_ Ian asks, eyes still closed. “Ryan didn’t deserve you, you know.”

Mickey sighs, and says, “Hope not.”

Ian glances up at him.

“You’re better than him,” he says. Then, he smiles and adds, “Still thinking about how much you pissed him off with some of that shit you said the other night. At the lounge.”

He’s not being ultra specific for lack of concentration, but he’s absolutely referring to Mickey’s outburst of, “ _You should feel the way he fucks me, Ryan.”_

Mickey laughs— _giggles_ , almost—and slides a finger down the side of Ian’s arm. Ian is pretty certain that they’re on the same page. 

“I wanted to make him fucking picture it,” Mickey says. “Until he couldn’t fuckin’ think about anything else.

Jesus Christ, yeah. He’s not the only one. 

“I think you had everyone in that room thinking about it,” Ian says. 

Mickey grins at him, tilts his head to the side, and says, “Everyone, huh? Even you?”

Ian nods, slowly. He’s falling back into a _mood_ , while his high continues to rise. 

“Especially me,” he says. “ _But—_ that’s all purely hypothetical, right? Because you’re not into that. _Right?”_

Mickey slides down until he’s lying beside Ian, and turns on his side to face him. Ian turns just enough to look at him.

“Never let a guy fuck me,” Mickey says. He smirks, and says, “But that don’t mean I don’t know what I like.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. He asks, “What the fuck does _that_ mean?” 

He can’t tell if he’s really fucking high, or really fucking stupid. Maybe he’s both.

“It means, for a _well-practiced gay,_ you’re fuckin’ clueless,” Mickey says. “When you’re alone—you ever fuckin’ get off with anything besides your hand, Gallagher?”

Ian thinks about it, and he’s pretty sure that his answer is an alarmingly boring _no._

“Like what?” he asks, waiting for Mickey to clarify.

Okay—so maybe he’s not _that_ clueless. But he really, really wants to hear Mickey say it out loud.

Mickey takes another hit, and smiles.

“Like toys, man. Vibrators, dildos—you know. Fuckin’ toys.”

Mickey hands Ian the joint, again, and their knuckles brush across each other for a few seconds longer than necessary. 

Ian becomes aware of the dryness of his mouth, so much worse from the weed, as he licks his lips. He says, “Oh,” and proceeds to inhale more smoke into his lungs.

 _“Oh,”_ Mickey repeats, snickering at Ian like it’s the funniest fucking thing he’s said all night.

Before now, Ian hadn’t considered Mickey fucking himself with toys, at all. 

It’s messing with his head, just a little bit.

“You know what? I take back the whole well-practiced thing,” Mickey adds. “You really never stick somethin’ up your fuckin’ ass, Gallagher?”

Ian covers a hand over his face and starts laughing, using the other to swat at Mickey’s shoulder. 

“I—no,” he says. “Just not my thing.”

“Your loss. Feels fuckin’ good. Gets me off harder,” Mickey muses. “Better.”

Jesus Christ.

Ian is too fucking high for this shit.

“Yeah,” he says. “I bet.”

Lying here with Mickey, thinking about him fucking himself until he fucking comes, isn’t exactly keeping Ian’s dick under control.

A loud, beeping noise suddenly fills Ian’s apartment, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it’s the oven timer. 

When the fuck did he put something in the oven?

“‘Bout fuckin’ time,” Mickey says, rolling away from Ian, and getting up from the bed. “I put pizza rolls in while you were in the bathroom.”

Oh, good. Okay.

Come to think of it, they smell like they’re burning. And—Ian came out of the bathroom over an hour ago.

Mickey mutters, “Oh, _fuck,”_ from the kitchen, turning to look at Ian with the most pathetic face Ian has ever seen. 

“What the fuck happened?” Ian asks, sitting up.

“I put them in for a hundred minutes instead of ten,” Mickey says, sadly. “They look like—fuckin’ rocks.”

“I’m not in the mood for fuckin’ rocks tonight,” Ian says, laughing at himself a little too hard after he says it.

Ah, yes. High, high, high.

Mickey starts laughing, too. He returns to the bed, throwing himself down and crawling back up to the headboard. 

Ian glances at the tattoos on his knuckles as Mickey settles into a comfortable position. He's still holding onto the joint, twirling it between his fingers. 

“Hey,” Ian says, suddenly. His train of thought is really suffering, right now. “When are you gonna give me that tattoo?” 

Mickey shrugs, and says, “Whenever the fuck you want me to.”

He smirks and hands Ian the joint.

“Do you know what you’re gonna give me?” Ian asks, raising it to his lips and inhaling deeply. He coughs slightly, exhales, and closes his eyes.

Yeah, that should _really_ be his last hit for the night. They’ve smoked this one faster, and it’s maybe a little stronger—and Ian’s gone from buzzed to high to _baked_ in a very short period of time.

Mickey doesn’t answer, but Ian feels the bed dip as Mickey moves to lie down. He snatches the joint back from Ian’s hand.

Ian lies back down next to him.

After inhaling a particularly heavy hit, Mickey smiles and says, “ _Yeah_ —I know what I’m gonna give ya.”

“You—huh?” Ian asks. 

He rolls onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. The new position has him inching closer to Mickey, and he really doesn’t fucking care about anything right now, except being near him. 

Mickey responds, “ _What,_ what?” and Ian can’t tell if he’s fucking with him or not. 

“What are you gonna give me?” Ian asks, more clearly.

He’s really struggling to keep his mind focused.

Tattoos. They’re talking about _tattoos._ At least, he’s pretty sure they’re talking about tattoos.

With Mickey lying on his back, Ian shifts again until they’re pressed arm to arm; Ian still lying on his elbows and stomach. He hovers closer to Mickey’s lips, and Mickey grins up at him.

“I said—do you know what you’re gonna give me?” Ian asks, again. 

Mickey takes a final hit before tossing the joint’s remnants onto Ian’s bedside table. He redirects his attention on Ian, and scoots his hips sideways until it’s clear that he’s trying to get beneath him completely. 

Ian’s breath hitches, as he moves over to settle on top of him. He looks into his eyes, and then he looks down at his lips.

It’s so fucking difficult to form coherent thoughts, right now. He feels completely elated, and Mickey is intensifying _everything_. 

“Fuck, I wanna kiss you,” Ian says, in daze.

He doesn’t realize he says it out loud until Mickey leans up to swipe his tongue across Ian’s lips. Ian moans, and Mickey grabs onto the bottom of his shirt to lift it off. They separate enough for Ian remove it, and Ian does the same with Mickey’s 

And then, with skin _finally_ touching skin, their teasing kisses turn hotter.

And then, they’re making out. 

Again. A lot.

After who the fuck knows how long, Mickey says, “I told ya—I _know_ what I’m gonna give ya,” with lips moving to press hot kisses down Ian’s neck. Nipping at his skin, Mickey whispers, “Not tonight, though.”

Something about it sends a shiver down Ian’s spine.

His critical thinking skills aren’t currently in their most powerful state, but, it doesn’t seem like Mickey is talking about a fucking tattoo, anymore.

Suddenly, Ian realizes that he’s rocking down against Mickey’s hips—wonders how long he’s been doing it—and immediately starts to do it _harder._

His body is still slow-moving, but it makes it so damn good, somehow. Mickey gasps, _“Fuck, yeah,”_ as his head falls back. He wraps his legs up around Ian’s hips, and pushes up against Ian’s leisurely thrusts.

 _“Ian,”_ Mickey says, weakly, “You—fuck, you think about me, like this?”

“Shit,” Ian bites out through gritted teeth, “Yeah, _yeah.”_

“Tell me,” Mickey coaxes, hands gripping onto Ian’s back. 

Ian’s entire body feels over-sensitive and stimulated, like Mickey’s fingers on his back, Mickey’s skin against his skin, Mickey’s deep, deep kisses—all feel like sex on fucking fire.

“I think about your body,” Ian says, dragging both hands down along the sides of Mickey’s torso. 

Mickey takes a deep, shuddery breath; continues to roll his body slowly up against Ian’s hips.

Ian adds, “Think about the sounds you make,” as he bites and sucks gently at the skin on Mickey’s neck.

It earns him a moan— _another moan—_ and then, one of Mickey’s hands is sliding down between their bodies. His fingers graze across the waistband of Ian’s sweatpants, as Mickey squeezes his thighs against Ian’s lower waist.

He has no idea if Mickey is just teasing, or if he’s actually going to _do something._

Ian is already getting himself embarrassingly close, much like earlier. He could absolutely get off a second time, from just this alone.

“What else?” Mickey asks, voice barely a whisper.

Fuck, _he knows._ Ian knows he knows.

Ian pushes down against Mickey, a little bit harder, and looks at Mickey, lying beneath him and moving _so perfectly_ in time with his body. 

Of course, actually _watching_ Mickey makes it so much worse; the fact that Ian’s nearly ready to fucking come again. 

_“Fuck,”_ Ian gasps. 

“Say it,” Mickey is all but fucking begging.

Ian closes his mouth over Mickey’s again, and whispers, _“Think about fucking you.”_

Mickey lifts his legs higher around Ian’s waist, moans with a breathy, _“Yeah,”_ that spins Ian’s world out like a fucking Tilt-A-Whirl. 

There’s sweat glistening on Mickey’s skin, now, and Ian can’t fucking resist when he leans back in to swipe his tongue along his neck—salty, hot, _Mickey._

Mickey slips the tips of his fingers just _barely_ into Ian’s sweats in the same moment, while Ian watches with eyes blown wide as Mickey clenches a fist around Ian’s blanket with his free hand.

“ _Fuck,”_ Ian says through an exhale. He reaches out to grab onto Mickey’s hand, squeezing as he pushes it down, harder into the mattress. “Fuck— _fuck,_ you’re gonna make me come.”

Jesus, he fucking means it, too. He’s straining against his boxers, and Mickey’s fingers are _so close_ but not quite there.

Ian is trying so fucking hard to hold it off, and the weed might actually work in his favor for that, building up slow in both speed and intensity. 

But, fuck, he still feels it everywhere.

 _“Ian,”_ Mickey whispers, craning his neck to get back to Ian’s lips. He makes a strangled sort of noise, and says, _“Touch me_ —fuck, fuckin’ touch me.”

Ian might as well black the fuck out at Mickey’s words, and within seconds he’s scrambling awkwardly to get his hand down Mickey’s pants. 

It’s incredibly ungraceful.

It feels like they’re having an uncoordinated race to see who can get to the other’s dick first. 

Mickey should win by proximity, but Ian thinks he might be too busy floating off somewhere in another realm of existence. 

So, Ian wins.

He lets go of Mickey’s hand reluctantly—the one that he was holding onto within an inch of his life—in favor of hooking both of his thumbs around Mickey’s sweats and boxers, and he tugs them down together, just enough, beneath Mickey’s ass. 

_Just enough._

Ian feels Mickey’s hand wrap around his cock right as Ian gets his hand on Mickey, and they both react nearly the same way; arching into each other and gasping at the contact.

The muscles tense up in Mickey’s legs, and they’re wrapped so fucking tightly around Ian that _all he can fucking feel_ are their hands and cocks pressing together.

They’re both getting a little bit loud; as heavy breathing turns to exhaled moans and stuttered gasps. Mickey breathes, _“Oh, fuck—yeah,”_ before colliding with Ian’s lips, and Ian feels like his entire fucking body is melting into Mickey’s as he tries to increase the pace of his hand.

Ian has sort of taken over for both of them, gripping around both himself and Mickey, rubbing them off furiously while Mickey writhes beneath him. His fingers are wet from where both his and Mickey’s cocks are leaking down his hand, creating an easy, _slip-slide_ motion where they’re rubbing together. 

It’s almost hard to believe that he’s really doing this right now, _with Mickey._ With Mickey fucking into his fist, sliding against his dick, moaning into his mouth. 

Fuck, _fuck—_ Ian isn’t going to last. 

Mickey’s got him so fucking wound up; with thighs still pressing hard around him, sliding between his waist and hips with every thrust, fingers dragging down his back, running through his hair. He feels Mickey’s heat everywhere; feels the sweat-damp skin of their chests pressing together, tastes the salty buildup of sweat above Mickey’s lips. 

It’s pure fucking bliss.

Every second, every inch.

He can’t be sure how long they keep it up for, when Mickey’s body starts to quiver. Ian wonders what he’s feeling, wonders what he’s thinking. He wonders if Mickey feels the way he does—if he’s soaring just as high, if he’s feeling it deep in his bones and in every hidden corner of his mind. 

He feels everything. Fucking everything. 

There’s warmth in his chest, warmth in his belly, warmth in his groin. There’s pressure building fast, and pleasure sizzling through his skin beneath Mickey’s fingertips. The squeeze of Mickey’s thighs against his hips makes him think about fucking. Like, really fucking. How good it would feel. How bad he wants it. How bad he thinks Mickey might want it, too. 

Fuck, maybe he can’t tell the fucking difference like this, with his head in the clouds and his body coming apart. 

And then, he feels it, when Mickey starts to come first.

With a strained sound, his mouth falls open and his head tips back, and he can’t hold his legs up anymore as they fall open and hit the mattress. Ian feels his body shaking, feels his muscles tensing as he comes all over Ian’s hand, Ian’s cock, Ian’s abdomen. 

And, yeah, that’s all Ian needs to fall the fuck over the edge; coming at the tail-end of Mickey’s orgasm, biting down on his neck to muffle his cries. His entire body reacts, nerves igniting and shooting off like fireworks, coming hard while the room spins and his skin feels like it’s tingling from his head all the way down to the tips of his toes. 

He slows his hand once he comes, but squeezes and fists up and down slowly, still holding their cocks together and working out every last drop. 

It feels like it lasts forever, ending with Ian molded against Mickey’s body, both breathing in unison as their chests rise and fall against one another. 

Damn, _damn._

That happened.

That really, really just fucking happened.

Ian feels weightless and anchored down at the same time; a magnet to Mickey’s charge, as Mickey sinks into the mattress with his hands still resting on Ian’s back. 

After an indiscernible amount of time—Ian can’t be sure how long—Mickey says, “Can’t move,” while making absolutely no effort to move. His fingers are suddenly tracing circles around Ian’s skin, and Ian hears him start to laugh. 

Ian realizes that he really can’t move, either.

“What if we’re stuck like this?” Ian muses, and he sort of means it.

Because like, what if?

Mickey is still laughing when he says, “No—can’t be. I’m fuckin’ hungry.”

Shit, yeah. Ian’s hungry too.

He tries to roll off of Mickey’s body, and although he succeeds after a hefty amount of effort, it feels like he weighs a million pounds.

Then, Ian starts laughing, too.

“I feel like a bowling ball,” he says.

He’s really not sure why. 

“A bowling ball,” Mickey repeats. Ian manages to glance at him, and watches him hold up his hand, wiggling his fingers like he’s trying to figure out if they’re attached to his body. He adds, “I don’t think my fuckin’ fingers could hold a bowling ball, right now.”

Ian’s fingertips feel fuzzy and numb. He doesn’t think he’d be able to, either. He reaches out to touch Mickey’s fingers, to see if he can feel them.

He can, and he starts to trace across them gently. They feel soft.

“Your hands are small,” Ian says. “Cute.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey grumbles, laughs again, and starts to trace Ian’s fingers back. “Your hands are big.”

Yeah. Maybe. 

Ian closes their fingers together and hums.

When they pull their hands apart, Mickey makes grabby hands towards Ian’s coffee table, where a box of cold pizza is waiting for them. 

“Pizza,” Mickey says. “ _Please—_ bring over the fuckin’ pizza.”

And water. Very, very important.

It’s a valiant effort, but Ian manages to do it.

Meanwhile, Mickey manages to sit upright. 

Ian becomes vaguely aware of his need to clean himself up— _again_ —but he reaches for his shirt and throws it over his head for now. He needs to eat, and he needs to pass the fuck out. 

He’ll shower tomorrow.

Mickey must decide to do the same.

They’re wearing each other’s shirts, on accident, but neither of them care enough to point it out. 

Instead, they devour the second box of pizza like wolves, and Ian has never enjoyed a meal so much in his entire fucking life. 

His body feels pliant and content, and after chugging two bottles of water and scraping the empty pizza box of any remaining cheese, sleep is calling his name. 

Mickey is already lying down again, above the covers with his eyes closed and a hand resting on his belly. Ian wonders if he’s already asleep, as he pulls back the covers and crawls beneath them. 

He falls asleep almost instantly, to the sound of Mickey’s steady breathing beside him.

* * *

Sunday morning arrives peacefully. 

Ian wakes to the sound of rain pattering against his apartment, filling his open windows with the fresh, earthy scent of summer showers. 

His head feels a little foggy, but it’s not exactly uncomfortable. And it’s certainly not unexpected. 

Mickey is still asleep, lying on his side facing away from Ian, and he must have crawled under the covers at some point during the night. 

They’re not exactly spooning, but Ian’s knuckles are pressing against Mickey’s back, and their legs are touching, just slightly.

Ian thinks about last night, from start to finish, and bites his lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of it all. He covers his face in his hands, smiling and blushing to himself. 

He can’t fucking help it.

There’s really no point in going through the motions of morning-after shame, under the circumstances. Last night wasn’t exactly a complete and total shock, although Ian had been doing a spectacular job of convincing himself of Mickey’s indifference (or hatred) towards him, prior to showing up at his door.

Which Ian was clearly, and _exceptionally,_ wrong about. 

It’s just such a foreign concept to him; to have this man that _he genuinely likes_ sleeping in his bed after an unforgettable night. A night filled with laughter and fun and mind blowing almost-sex that Ian can’t get out of his head.

Still, he doesn’t want to overthink it.

And he’s trying really, _really_ hard not to.

* * *

Ian takes a shower, while he lets Mickey sleep.

It’s refreshing, after falling into an incredibly stoned sleep complete with dried come on his skin and splattered into his pubic hair. 

You know, all of those lovely and glamorous parts of sex that are rightfully ignored in the movies. 

Because they’re fucking gross. 

Worth it, but gross.

While he’s pulling on a fresh set of clothes, he’s reminded that he owes Mickey a clean shirt, too.

He finds Mickey sitting on the couch when he exits the bathroom, and Mickey offers him a lazy smile.

“Accidentally stole your shirt,” Mickey says, pulling at its hem like he’s pointing out that he’s still wearing it. 

Ian holds up Mickey’s shirt in response, smiles, and tosses it at him as he says, “Thievery. Let me grab you a clean one.”

It’s the least he can do. 

Mickey ends up taking a shower, too. 

He’s heading out to pick up a new phone today, and Ian imagines he doesn’t want to show up unshowered in disgusting, dirty clothes. 

Keeping that in mind, Ian lets him borrow an entire outfit—a white t-shirt and burnt orange zip-up hoodie, with a pair of boxers and grey sweats that are too long for Mickey’s legs. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, it throws Ian a little off balance, to see Mickey wearing his clothes.

“Do I look like you?” Mickey asks, holding out his hands and kicking out one of his legs as he adds, “Long leg motherfucker.”

“Like I’m looking in a mirror,” Ian deadpans.

“I’m sure,” Mickey replies with a grin.

They look at each other for a moment, and it’s not exactly awkward as much as it is _heavy._

There are a lot of words unspoken, a lot of questions unanswered, and a lot of thoughts that Ian thinks may be best kept inside his head. 

Don’t overthink it, Ian. 

Mickey has an appointment scheduled to purchase and set up his new phone at 2 p.m. 

If he doesn’t leave now, he’s going to be late.

Basically—there’s no time for any sort of in depth discussion, right now. 

So, instead, Ian walks Mickey to the door. 

“Thanks for the soup,” Ian says (again) as Mickey reaches for the doorknob. “Oh—and for the weed.”

“Yeah, well. Thanks for the pizza. And for lettin’ me borrow your clothes,” Mickey says, pauses, and adds, “ _Oh—_ and for the fuckin’ orgasms.”

He says it so seriously that Ian almost wonders if he misheard him.

“Sure beats the hell outta gettin’ high by myself,” Mickey continues. “And gettin’ off by myself.”

At least they’re already joking about it.

That’s definitely better than ignoring it and pretending like nothing happened. 

“Guess we’ll just have to do it again, sometime,” Ian says. He _really_ mostly meant the getting high together part, but Mickey smirks at him, and Ian catches himself. “I _meant—_ we should smoke again, sometime.”

“You sure that’s what you meant?” Mickey asks, raising an eyebrow. Ian purses his lips, and Mickey adds, “Whatever the fuck you say, Gallagher.”

“ _Bye,_ Mickey,” Ian says, standing by the door as Mickey steps out into the hallway. 

“By the way,” Mickey begins, turning back to him one last time. “Gimme at least three hours to get my phone shit sorted out before you start thinkin’ I _ghosted_ your ass.”

“Fuck off,” Ian grumbles. “Also— _ghosted?_ Who the fuck taught you _that_ term?”

Mickey flips him off and yells, “ _Sandy!”_ as he heads down the stairs. There’s a bouncy sort of spring in his step that makes Ian feel undeniably giddy.

It could be the fact that Mickey’s leaving his apartment, head to toe wearing Ian’s clothes.

Or—it could _also_ be the marks that Ian left clearly visible along the side of his neck.

Maybe, probably, it’s a little bit of both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts for this chapter:
> 
> -I really did search for landlord-tenant relationships on Google, and I absolutely don’t recommend it unless you want to be just as disturbed as Ian. And myself.
> 
> -A general idea of [Ian's studio apartment layout](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d408790954c3c57b5c0e293f5872ee31/219de9d3dc08d5c6-60/s540x810/5d289e956a8597603e691ef02b98298ed1a54844.jpg)
> 
> - ~~Ian's~~ [Mickey's entire outfit in the final scene](https://64.media.tumblr.com/6eccb7aea5928abb13f40d8d2ca4f74f/219de9d3dc08d5c6-62/s400x600/a917ba73c094ec3fa5c6b1dcac1cb963acaa4063.jpg) — because, quite frankly, we've all seen it in the recent BTS pics and it just completely struck me as an Ian workout outfit. So. I took liberties, with that one.
> 
> —
> 
> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	7. Watch and fuckin' learn, Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian plays his first gig, and Mickey dials things up with a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers. It's been a while. 
> 
> If you follow me on Twitter or Tumblr, then you've seen my brief discussions about putting this chapter on hold due to my own mental health issues. It really was the best decision I could have made, in order to release something that I was genuinely proud of. I could have posted this about three weeks ago, but it would have been about 10,000 words less, and basically a shell of what this turned into. 
> 
> I'm genuinely feeling so much better, and that obviously plays a huge role in my ability to write a satisfying chapter. I really appreciate you guys for being so patient and understanding, and I can't thank you enough for your support and excitement surrounding this story.
> 
> I wish I could provide a posting schedule for my updates, but I really can't right now. I'm still writing regularly, and I promise that I'm not going anywhere, even if there are occasionally a few extra weeks in between.
> 
> I'll also do my best to keep you guys updated on social media, regarding chapter progress and posting dates.
> 
> Anyway, thank you A BILLION times. I'd really love to read your feedback, so please let me know what you think! I used to be much better about replying to comments than I have been over the last few months, but I truly appreciate every single thing you guys have to say<3

Chapter 7

After Mickey leaves on Sunday afternoon, Ian spends the rest of his day feeling disgustingly smitten, for lack of a better word, while he replays last night’s events on loop in his mind.

There’s a flutter in his chest as he goes about his business, distracted by pleasant thoughts and an influx of blossoming feelings that Ian doesn’t really know what to do with.

Yes, he’s supposed to be keeping those feelings in check. He’s trying. He’s really, _really_ trying.

But there’s no rule that says he’s not allowed to do a little bit of after-glow basking, under the circumstances. He certainly can’t be faulted for that.

Later in the evening, at exactly 6:07, just as Ian finishes remaking his bed with freshly cleaned sheets and blankets, his phone finally buzzes.

The moment Ian sees Mickey’s name in his notifications, his heartbeat quickens, the flutter in his chest wiggles excitedly down into his stomach, and he smiles.

_**Mickey:** Guess what? I’m back in service bitch_

Ian wonders if he should wait a few minutes to reply. He doesn’t want to seem overly eager.

Or fucking desperate.

It’s not like he’s been sitting around, spending the entire afternoon waiting for Mickey to text him.

Really, he _wasn’t._

Maybe he glanced at his phone a few times, and maybe he pulled up their texts repeatedly, just to be sure he didn’t miss any.

But he wasn’t _waiting_ for him.

For what it’s worth, Ian manages to wait two entire minutes before texting back. And, because he can’t think of a good reason _not_ to, he decides to mess with him, just a little bit.

_**Ian:** Who is this?_

_**Ian:** Wait, don’t tell me_

_**Ian:** Hm…nope. I got nothing _

The ellipsis shows up instantly, dancing around their message screen as Mickey types back.

_**Mickey:** Wtf are you talking about… my number didn’t change?_

The fact that Mickey actually seems to be falling for it is incredibly satisfying.

And sort of hilarious.

_**Ian:** Must have deleted you from my phone_

_**Mickey:** Dude. Are you fucking with me?_

_**Ian:** 🤔🤨_

_**Mickey:** Fuck off I’m blocking you_

_**Ian:** But I don’t even know who this is _

Not so shockingly, Mickey doesn’t actually block him. And if the remainder of Ian’s night is spent texting him back and forth, that’s just another thing that he _really_ can’t be faulted for.

* * *

It feels like they’re texting a lot more than they had been previously, beginning on that Sunday night. Ian doesn’t remember the last time he had someone in his life that he actually wanted to talk to round the clock. He was never really all that fond of texting to begin with.

It’s different with Mickey, though. Because their conversations aren’t boring, and their discussions don’t ever really seem to go dead.

Ian finds that, when he isn’t talking to him, he _wants_ to be talking to him. He wants to hear about his day, or about what he’s having for dinner. He wants to be the person Mickey texts first, whenever he has a story to tell, or a thought that he wants to share.

He wonders if that’s normal; if that qualifies as being a _just friends_ sort of thing.

In some cases, sure. Probably.

But—what about in Ian’s case, while he’s in the midst of battling a hefty helping of feelings?

Not so much, probably.

Ian’s nothing if not convincing, though. And his specialty, at least lately, is convincing himself that his feelings _aren’t a big deal._

Which they aren’t. At all.

Even when the following two mornings begin with messages from Mickey like _Good morning boyfriend_ and _Rise and fuckin’ shine sexy._

And, they’re obviously jokes. All of them.

There's no question in Ian’s mind that they’re meant ironically; as they address each other with stupid pet names that mimic what Ian would describe as being a prime example of a very irritating couple.

So, no. Of course they don’t _actually_ mean anything.

But it isn’t long before those silly, ironic texts quickly turn into an onset of afternoon messages, sent with the blatant intention of annoying and distracting each other from their daily responsibilities.

And, of course, those afternoon conversations carry on well into the evening, as the two of them mindlessly complain about stupid shit that happened throughout the day.

As the nights go on, they talk briefly about the upcoming weekend—just casual discussions about when they’re both free, what their plans are, and how Ian’s feeling about his Friday night lounge gig.

And, you know.

Sometimes Mickey will throw out a suggestive text or two, and sometimes Ian plays into it.

And, _you know._ Ian kind of likes that.

* * *

Midway through the week, on Wednesday afternoon, Ian meets Lip for a lunch and shopping date.

Lip is tasked with the very adamant mission of buying Tami an apology gift, for a situation that Ian really isn’t able to mentally follow—even after Lip spends ten minutes trying to explain it.

When it comes to Lip and Tami’s marriage, it’s completely clear to Ian that the dynamic of their relationship is centered around the fact that Tami is always right.

And Lip, clever as he is, generally has no idea what he’s doing—ever—when it comes to love.

Ian thinks that must be a Gallagher thing.

But it’s also abundantly obvious that Lip really fucking loves her, and he’s fully prepared to spend the rest of his life loving her, while also vowing to always clean up his own stupid mistakes.

It seems to work, somehow, because Tami forgives him every time.

And maybe that’s a true testament to how much she really loves him, too.

Ian wonders if maybe that’s what marriage is, first and foremost. Maybe it’s about loving someone completely, no matter how stupid they are, and no matter how infuriating they can be.

Maybe it’s about working together to make things right, even when they inevitably go wrong.

He’s gotta give Lip credit where it’s due—he’s a really great husband.

It’s one of those things that Ian thinks about, sometimes.

What kind of husband would he be, if that day should ever come?

He wonders if, someday, he and Lip will spend their afternoons buying apology gifts together, while Tami undoubtedly commiserates with Ian’s future husband over the questionable decision of marrying two men of the Gallagher family.

* * *

By the time Ian and Lip sit down for lunch, Ian has become heavily fixated on his phone. Again.

As if he hasn’t been consistently texting Mickey for the last three days. As if he’s become utterly incapable of going a few fucking hours without talking to him.

But Mickey seems especially chatty, once he finishes up with his first tattoo appointment of the day. Ian really doesn’t even think twice about it, finding himself immediately caught up in their back and forth banter.

It’s like his mind switches into some kind of _Mickey mode,_ where his one and only objective is texting Mickey until he eventually runs out of words to say.

Except, that’s exactly the problem.

Ian never seems to run out of words to say, and neither does Mickey.

And Lip, observant as he is, calls Ian out on his excessive texting after about fifteen minutes.

Which Ian _really_ should have seen coming.

But it’s so hard to ignore Mickey’s enthusiastic texts, as he bitches about the fact that his favorite coffee shop _burned his fucking bagel_ this morning. He tells the story dramatically, like it’s the worst thing that could have possibly happened to him today.

And then, to make matters even worse, Mickey proceeded to spill coffee all over his shirt.

Which leaves Ian no choice but to tease him, because, much like Ian on the day they first met, Mickey was left with an ugly coffee stain splattered across his chest.

Mickey snaps a selfie, complete with coffee stains, a middle finger raised, and a deadpan expression.

Ian can’t stop fucking _smiling_ as soon as he gets the photo.

He immediately saves it to his phone.

And, okay. Truthfully, no—it’s probably not the most critical of exchanges to be having via text while he’s out to lunch with his brother.

Plus, yeah. He can admit that it’s a little bit rude, and there’s also the unfortunate fact that Lip isn’t a fucking idiot.

Although, even an idiot would _probably_ be able to guess why Ian is so preoccupied.

“Okay, Ian. What the fuck’s up with the phone? You wanna grab lunch another time when you aren’t so busy, or—?”

Lip is kidding, sort of, in the sense that Ian can tell he’s not actually mad.

But Ian’s face still falls instantly, because it really wasn’t intentional. He tucks his phone into the pocket of his jeans and folds his hands, looking up at Lip with an innocent smile on his face.

“Sorry,” Ian says. “No more phone, I promise.”

“What’s got you so distracted that you can’t put that thing down?” Lip asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or should I put on my _intuitive-older-brother_ costume and take a guess?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Ian says, sipping on his Coke.

Ian feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he forces himself to keep from reaching for it.

“So,” Lip shrugs. “Speaking of Mickey—” He looks up knowingly, obviously examining Ian’s face for a reaction before continuing. “—I’m actually really impressed with him. He’s a great tattoo artist, you know.”

Ian’s face softens, and his smile widens.

He can’t help it.

“There it is,” Lip says. “That smile. The smile of someone pathetically whipped by his boyfriend.”

“Fake boyfriend,” Ian corrects, quickly. “And—fuck off. I’m not whipped.”

Lip snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, _sure_. You got it so fucking bad for him,” Lip says. “He know, yet? Or is he just as clueless as you are?”

“I’m not clueless,” Ian argues, weakly.

Maybe he’s a little bit clueless.

“You’re completely clueless,” Lip says. “And if you say, _‘It’s not like that,’_ one more time, I swear I’m going to punch you in the face.”

“Jesus, _fine,”_ Ian admits. “It’s—a little bit like that, I guess. We, uh, sort of hung out the other night.”

Lip raises his eyebrows and asks, “Hung out like— _hung out?”_

Ian sighs, tilts his head from side to side, and scrunches up his face. He meets Lip’s eyes, and he really doesn’t have to elaborate.

“Slippery slope, brother,” Lip says, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Okay, yes, Ian fucking gets it. And he’s had _enough_ of the goddamn slippery slope analogy.

“It just kind of happened, you know? We got really high, and he spent the night.”

“When the hell was this?” Lip asks. “The same night you were supposed to be _sick?”_

Oh, right. _Sick._ Ian sort of forgot about that. To be fair, he felt fucking sick, at the time.

“Yeah— _anyway,”_ Ian says, abruptly changing the subject. “Let’s see the tattoo.”

Lip grins and clearly decides to take mercy on Ian, as he turns to the side and rolls up his sleeve. Freddie’s footprints are tattooed neatly on his right bicep, with the numbers of his birthdate centered below them.

“I really like it,” Lip says. “He’s talented.”

Ian nods. There’s that familiar _fond_ feeling bubbling up inside of him, and he wonders if it shows; if it’s completely fucking obvious.

“It came out great,” Ian says. “Look at you, Pops. Soft motherfucker, forever inked up with Freddie’s cute little feet.”

 _“‘Cute little feet,’_ huh?” Lip mocks. “Who’s the soft motherfucker, Uncle Ian?”

Ian holds up his middle finger, immediately putting it down with an apologetic smile when a waitress approaches their table at the same time.

He feels his phone buzz again, and makes a mental note to take a quick bathroom break as soon as their orders are placed.

* * *

The rest of the week passes quickly, leading up to Ian’s rescheduled gig on Friday.

Ian’s days are spent a little bit hyper-focused on preparing—which mostly consists of hours upon hours of rehearsing, on top of fine-tuning a setlist. He’s definitely a bit of a perfectionist, when it comes to things like this.

After working tirelessly to pull the lounge together over the last few months, he really wants his first performance to be memorable.

When he first envisioned his nights at Rhythm Recall, he expected to be performing far more frequently. _A few nights a week_ , or so he had anticipated.

He’s just been a little bit too preoccupied to make that happen, so far.

And that’s okay, really, because business is booming and cash is flowing and their artists are thriving. Some have already started scheduling follow-up gigs, while also spreading the word to their industry friends. The positive reputation is only continuing to flourish, rapidly turning the lounge into a Wicker Park staple.

After just one month of open doors, that’s beyond anything that Ian could have imagined.

So, maybe it’s not exactly what he expected for himself. Not yet, anyway. But everybody starts _somewhere,_ and for Ian, that somewhere starts tonight.

The thought is both scary and incredible at the same time—but Ian never really craved the spotlight or the attention, whenever he envisioned himself playing for a crowd.

That’s not what it’s about for him, and it really never was. For Ian, it’s more about the feeling.

It’s the way music has always resonated with him, ever since he began playing so many years ago.

It’s the way strumming away at his guitar feels like an extension of himself, serving as an outlet for everything that he can’t quite put into words.

It’s a release for emotions; both good and bad.

A way to bask in the light, and combat the dark.

And now, for the very first time, he has the opportunity to share this part of himself with an audience. It’s intimidating, overwhelming, and it’s fucking _amazing._

The anticipation has him hyped up like the best kind of buzz, and he feels good. Really good.

He’s got this. He’s fucking got this.

Ian chooses to focus solely on instrumentals, at least for right now. Just himself and an acoustic guitar, playing through familiar songs that people are sure to recognize with or without vocals attached.

It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ to sing—but it’s just not really his thing, especially for his first performance.

He imagines that he must fit a very typical hipster guy vibe right now, with his guitar and a list of songs probably found on numerous coffee shop playlists.

Keeping that in mind, he opts to keep his outfit casual, attempting to sidestep the entire hipster-douche stereotype.

That’s really not at all what he’s going for, even in the heart of Wicker Park.

He chooses dark blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a short-sleeved, grey button-down hanging open over it. No fucking hats or suspenders or any other accessories that just aren’t really _him._

Because that’s part of tonight, too.

He’s essentially debuting an image of himself, the way he wants the crowd to see him.

For anyone that doesn’t know Ian personally, he’s making himself known for the first time.

Not just that stranger around the lounge. Not just that guy that sometimes pops behind the bar counter. And, maybe for some, not just that guy who occasionally makes out with that other guy— _you know, the short one with the dark hair._

In some cases, he imagines that his reputation precedes him.

But tonight is different.

Tonight, he’ll officially introduce himself—as Ian. As a musician. As Rhythm Recall’s owner.

He’ll talk about why he chose to open the lounge, and why he wants to use it as a platform for up and coming artists. He’ll thank everyone for their support, he’ll offer up a round of free drinks, and then, with the pleasantries out of the way, he’ll relax and play some fucking music.

And if he happens to impress a certain someone by the end of the night—maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, either.

As he steps out of his apartment with his guitar case slung over his shoulder, right on cue, his phone buzzes.

_**Mickey:** You got this shit tonight _

_**Mickey:** You’re gonna be great_

_**Mickey:** Seeya soon boyfriend_

* * *

At age twenty-five, on the first Friday of July—nearly four months after receiving his father’s multi-million dollar inheritance—Ian Gallagher finds himself on Rhythm Recall’s stage for the very first time.

It’s everything that Ian wanted, and at the same time, it’s so much _more_ than he ever could have imagined.

Tonight is his night, as he sits on a small stool, up on stage with his guitar. He becomes the soundtrack of the evening; the backtrack of memories that people will create with one another, throughout the night.

And maybe, most importantly, he feels like this is right where he belongs.

He looks around the room, absently as he plays, taking in the supportive smiles of his family.

He watches strangers in the crowd with their drinks in hand, basking in the company of loved ones and friends.

And occasionally, when he happens to catch someone’s eye, he can see it so clearly on their faces, that they’re having a damn good time.

But, even tonight—during his first ever performance on stage—he’s enamored by an entirely different sort of rush, completely unrelated to performing.

Every time his eyes land on Mickey.

Which, admittedly, is quite fucking often.

God, he can’t help it.

Maybe it’s because Mickey looks so damn good tonight, dressed in a white tank top with a leather jacket on top, complete with Ian’s favorite light blue jeans. Or maybe it’s because Ian hasn’t seen him since he left his apartment last Sunday—a whole five fucking days ago.

Or _maybe_ it’s because Ian is still harboring an all-consuming crush that probably doesn’t even qualify as _just a crush_ anymore, now that things are actually fucking happening between them.

Fuck, it just feels like something is brewing beneath the surface, every time their eyes meet.

It just feels like fucking _something._

The kind of something that’s been building _up, up, up,_ threatening to unravel at any given moment. The kind of something that Ian knows shouldn’t come from _fake boyfriends_ or _friends with benefits_ or any other bullshit fucking title that they’ve chosen to slap on top of their relationship.

Or, _not-_ relationship.

Ian might as well be sticking a goddamn piece of duct tape over the cracks of a sinking ship.

_All good, Captain! Everything seems secure!_

Sure, Ian. Maybe for the motherfucking Titanic.

Because, in reality, Ian’s feelings are threatening to burst through the seams like rushing water, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

He’s trying. He’s _trying._

But no matter how hard Ian tries, he can’t fucking shake it. His gaze returns to Mickey like there’s something pulling him there, over and over again, and Mickey fucking knows it, too.

He smiles at Ian after their eyes meet for a particularly long moment, and—well, Ian is really goddamn lucky that he knows these chords by heart. Mickey’s smile is _distracting._

Because it’s fucking beautiful.

Because _he’s_ fucking beautiful.

Fucking beautiful and so, _so_ fucking dangerous, dragging Ian down a seemingly endless dead end road of torture.

But _mostly—_ fucking beautiful.

And, right now, Mickey’s smile isn’t anything like the cocky, teasing grins that Ian has grown so accustomed to. Instead, it’s a soft, proud smile; comforting and encouraging. It’s a smile that says _I’m here for you,_ while it warms Ian from the inside out.

If Ian didn’t know better, in that moment, he’d swear that Mickey was the only person in the whole damn crowd.

* * *

Ian performs for just over an hour, and when he steps off stage, it’s Mickey who greets him first.

He kisses Ian’s lips without missing a beat, catching him off guard; leaving him dumbstruck for a good two seconds until he’s able to properly kiss back.

Once he does, Mickey takes it upon himself to kiss him harder. He grabs onto Ian’s waist, gently brushing his fingers back and forth, and even through two layers of fabric, it makes Ian’s skin tingle.

Well, really, it makes _everything_ tingle—skin, heart, stomach, groin. Everything.

When Mickey finally breaks their kiss, he smiles, remaining in Ian’s space as they look into each other's eyes. Ian feels like he’s stuck in a daze, so focused on Mickey that he almost forgets his entire family is there, waiting to congratulate him.

“What was that for?” Ian asks.

There’s surely a dopey smile on his face.

It’s like his brain is completely misfiring, stuck on a loop where his only coherent thought is how much wants to keep kissing Mickey.

_Again and again and again._

Because, holy shit, he wants to so badly.

So fucking badly.

“Just felt like it,” Mickey says, like it’s nothing. “Where you been hidin’ all that fuckin’ talent at, Gallagher?”

Ian blushes as Mickey proceeds to take a step back, giving him some space as his siblings move in to offer hugs and congratulations.

He watches Mickey over their shoulders, while his heart pounds hard within his chest.

It feels so much like something is _happening_ here, continuing to bloom between the two of them, and Ian isn’t at all ready to fucking deal with what that means.

It’s sort of a blur from there, and a little bit overwhelming, as more people begin to approach him. He gets showered in compliments and celebratory shots, and commended for everything that he’s managed to pull off with Rhythm Recall in such a short period of time.

It takes a good half hour of small talk, before the crowd finally begins to disperse. As much as Ian appreciates the outpouring of love, he’s more than ready to move on with his night.

Finally, once he’s no longer the center of attention, he turns his own focus back on Mickey.

Their eyes meet from across the room, where Mickey is chatting with Sandy near the bar.

They smile at one another, and Ian feels disgustingly weak. He’s all but succumbing to the fact that his _I want a boyfriend_ brain is once again operating at full strength, threatening to knock him on his ass.

Except now, it’s _so much worse._

Sandy hands Mickey two beers and offers Ian a smile of her own, as Mickey makes his way back across the room, meeting Ian beside the stage.

“So, Gallagher,” Mickey begins, handing one of the beers to Ian. “You got groupies lined up for later? Or are you too fuckin’ wholesome for that shit?”

Ian takes it from him, and narrows his eyes.

“Ah—you know, I would have. But I think you scared them all away,” Ian says, grinning as he lifts the bottle to his lips to take a sip.

“Might have,” Mickey says. He shrugs, bites down on his bottom lip, and adds, “Could make it up to you, I think.”

Ian feels like the air is getting punched out of his lungs. Mickey’s suggestive tone is clearly intentional, and the look in his eyes is so fucking _unfair,_ while they’re out in public with Ian’s entire family.

Because while Mickey is giving Ian _that look,_ Ian’s got an entire fucking film reel playing in his head. He can’t stop thinking about kissing Mickey’s lips. He can’t stop thinking about last weekend; about Mickey in his bed, and how fucking badly he wants to get his hands on him again.

He’s thinking that it’s been six days since they fooled around, and six days is too goddamn long.

If Mickey has any intention of hooking up tonight, Ian is fully fucking prepared to give him whatever the fuck he wants.

Before Ian can push the subject further, they’re interrupted, suddenly, by a very enthusiastic bowling announcement from Debbie.

“Okay, listen up!” Debbie shouts. “Gallaghers, Balls, and Milkoviches—that means you! Lip and I made reservations for midnight bowling at that new alley over on Ashland. So, everyone get your shit together and figure out rides. We’re supposed to be there by eleven.”

Ian pulls out his phone to check the time.

It’s already 10:30, and if Ian is being completely honest with himself, he sort of expected to be wrapping up his night by eleven.

Or, more specifically, he expected to be wrapping up his night by eleven—and hopefully getting the fuck out of there with Mickey by his side.

Except, unfortunately, he’s not an asshole. And he’s obviously not about to ditch his family on a night that’s meant to be a celebration for him.

It’s great, and it’s incredibly thoughtful.

But if Ian had his way, he would thank them—and then he would very politely decline.

His body is pumped full of adrenaline and his mind is very dramatically focused on getting Mickey alone, and he can’t do that at a fucking bowling alley.

“Bowling, huh?” Mickey says, looking at Ian with an eyebrow raised. “You even any good at bowling?”

Mickey’s reaction is somewhat puzzling.

Why wouldn’t Ian be good at bowling? He frowns, stubbornly folding his arms over his chest.

“I’m fucking great at bowling,” Ian says. “I used to bowl perfect games, almost every time.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, skeptically, and says, “Sure, Gallagher. Y’know bumpers don’t count, right?”

The taunting words instantly creep under Ian’s skin, until he shoves lightly at Mickey’s shoulder and replies, “Okay, hotshot. Guarantee I won’t need bumpers when I’m wiping the floor with you.”

If nothing else, kicking Mickey’s ass at bowling rushes to the forefront of Ian’s mind, leaping bounds over the idea of getting him into bed.

For now, at least.

And, that’s okay.

In fact, it’s probably a good thing.

Ian figures he’s always down for a little bit of friendly competition.

* * *

It’s entirely possible that Ian shoved his foot into his mouth, when he hyped up—and sorely exaggerated—his bowling skills.

They split off into two teams—Ian, Lip, V, and Sandy on one, with Mickey, Tami, Kev, and Debbie on the other.

Carl volunteers to sit out in favor of keeping the teams even, and he seems more than content to sit back with a beer and observe.

And, well.

Maybe Ian should have done the same.

He knocks over nine pins on his first attempt, and it’s not exactly _bad,_ but it’s nothing to write home about. He manages to pull off a spare on his second try.

Okay, so.

He’s good, but he’s not _perfect-game_ good.

More accurately, he’s only ever managed to bowl a perfect game once in his life.

Mickey stands up, smirking at Ian with nothing but smug confidence. He chooses a ball and saunters across the floor to his lane, turning back to raise an eyebrow at Ian.

Ian watches him.

As Mickey’s blatant flirting becomes more and more distracting, Ian feels incredibly flustered, with his cheeks quickly becoming flushed and overheated.

His mind trickles back to last weekend, _again,_ and he vaguely remembers Mickey saying some ridiculous shit about being too high to hold a bowling ball. God, it was such a good night. So fucking high and _so fucking hot_ and Ian just wants to do it all over again.

He recalls making a comment about Mickey’s hands being small— _and cute._ He recalls tracing along Mickey’s fingers, soft and tingly against Ian’s fingertips.

He thinks about touching Mickey’s hands. He thinks about how badly he wants to touch Mickey’s body; wants to take his time exploring every inch of his skin, until he memorizes every detail. Until his touch leaves traces on Mickey’s skin, burrowing beneath the surface and anchoring itself deep. He wants to make Mickey come apart under his touch, over and over and over again.

And, right now, he wants nothing more than to kiss the cocky grin off of Mickey’s soft lips.

With perfect form, Mickey taunts, _“Watch and fuckin’ learn, Gallagher,”_ as he rolls the ball straight down the center—earning him his first strike of the night.

Ian gapes at him.

Mickey spins around triumphantly, catching Ian’s surprised expression. He makes a motion like he’s brushing dirt off his shoulder, shrugs, and says, “You were saying?”

Fine. Maybe Mickey has him fucking beat.

Ian wasn’t expecting to be so evenly matched, at the very least, when he began running his mouth back at the lounge. It puts a major fucking damper on any hopes of blowing Mickey away with his (not so) exemplary abilities.

“Something about _‘wiping the floor with me’—_ right?” Mickey continues, arrogantly.

Fuck him for being good. Fuck him for being hot.

“Yeah, yeah. Lucky strike,” Ian says.

 _“Talent,_ Gallagher,” Mickey corrects. “Luck ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

Ian waves Mickey off, dismissively.

He begrudgingly sits down in their booth as Lip bowls his turn, and it’s not entirely unexpected when Mickey comes over to sit down beside him.

Staring straight ahead, focused on his brother, Ian ignores him. Mickey stares at him intently, scooting over until he’s sitting flush against Ian’s side—while Ian pointedly refuses to look at him.

At least, until Mickey leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Gonna pout all night?” Mickey asks as he pulls away. He sets a hand on Ian’s thigh. “Just ‘cause you suck?”

Ian rolls his eyes, inhales sharply, and finally looks at him.

“Nobody likes a sore loser,” Mickey says. “If you’re gonna suck, at least suck with some fuckin’ dignity.”

Ian smiles. His embarrassment begins to fade away, taking any remnants of competitive frustration along with it.

He really, really doesn’t give a fuck about bowling.

“Is that—a sex joke?” Ian asks, raising an eyebrow.

He lifts his arm to wrap it around Mickey’s shoulders where they’re resting against the back of the booth, and gets hit with a _rush_ when Mickey leans further into him.

There’s something about the way Mickey fits so fucking perfectly at Ian’s side, settled into him like he’s meant to be there, that sends a buzz through Ian’s veins.

They’re still looking at each other, and Mickey’s got a look on his face that Ian really, _really_ wishes he could take advantage of.

“Wasn’t supposed to be,” Mickey says, squeezing his fingers gently into Ian’s thigh. “What the fuck you got on your mind tonight, Gallagher?”

Every possible answer to that question would likely get Ian in an enormous amount of trouble.

Keeping that in mind, Ian doesn’t answer.

Instead, he moves in to kiss Mickey’s lips.

It’s the best thing he can think of, in the moment, that doesn’t require either of them to speak.

And it feels so, _so_ good.

Mickey breaks the kiss after a few seconds, smiles against Ian’s mouth, and says, “Could be down for more of this, y’know.”

“Yeah?” Ian asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey repeats, pressing another kiss to Ian’s lips. He moves, mouth hovering over his ear, and adds, “Think your big night could end with somethin’ way more than bowling, if you want it to.”

Fuck. Yes, of fucking course he wants it to

Ian really wants to make it clear that he wants something tonight. Anything. He wants Mickey to know that he _wants him,_ no matter what that means. Because Mickey’s been sending Ian signals all night, and Ian just needs him to know—yeah, they’re on the same page.

He could convey it in a thousand different ways, probably, but he chooses to kiss him again, this time with a little bit more purpose.

Mickey’s tongue sweeps across his lips, responsive and eager, until the world around Ian starts to fade into nothing but Mickey; until whiskey and nicotine are the only tastes left on Ian’s tongue.

For the most part, to the credit of a night well spent, their entire group is pretty fucking drunk.

Ian realizes it when he briefly comes up for air, glancing around at the rest of their group. He’s looking for Lip, specifically, not at all in the mood for any sort of lecture tonight.

To his relief, his brother is nowhere to be found. He likely stepped out for a cigarette after his turn had ended.

Ian considers that free rein as he moves back in to catch Mickey’s lips in another kiss.

As they continue to add another public display of affection to an already lengthy list, nobody so much as bats an eye in their direction. Because, really, at this point—why _wouldn’t_ they be making out in their booth at a bowling alley?

They’re interrupted, unfortunately, by Sandy tapping a finger on Ian’s shoulder. She stumbles slightly, from one too many drinks, and smiles as she catches her balance.

“You two look cozy,” she says. “But—Ian, it’s your turn again.”

Oh, right.

Because they’re still in the middle of a game.

“Right,” Ian says, lifting his arm from where it’s resting over Mickey’s shoulders.

He stands up from the booth with every ounce of motivation that he can muster, watching as Mickey leans back in the booth to make himself comfortable.

“Show me whatcha got, Gallagher.”

Ian nods, before finally turning away from him.

There’s a lot on his mind, as he steps forward to pick up his ball of choice. His thoughts are distracting the absolute fuck out of him, making him stare absently at the twelve pins lined neatly across the lane.

Honestly, Ian’s not going to be able to humor this much longer. His mind can’t focus on anything that isn’t Mickey’s mouth, and—fuck, he just wants to be alone with him. He’s already done more than his due fucking diligence by even making it this far into the night.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he barely notices when Mickey steps up beside him for his own turn.

“You good, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, looking at him curiously.

There’s a hint of a smirk on his face, though, and Ian knows he’s anything but clueless.

 _“Yes,_ I’m good,” Ian insists.

Mickey hums and swiftly moves forward, sending his ball rolling down its lane.

Another strike.

He turns back to Ian with almost no reaction, shrugs, and says, “Hurry up, bitch. I wanna go out for a smoke.”

It takes Ian a second, while the wheels turn slowly in his head. Mickey’s expression implies something else entirely, as he gives a subtle nod in the direction of the bathroom.

Oh, yeah.

Okay, _yeah_.

Ian can take a hint.

He faces forward; aiming, focusing, thinking.

In the moment, Ian could roll a goddamn gutter ball without giving a single fuck, while Mickey watches and _waits_ for him, offering the promise of something that Ian cares much more about than his mediocre bowling score.

And then, with a whopping dose of irony, Ian bowls an easy strike.

His teammates erupt with a dramatic display of cheering, leaping up from their seats.

Kev grabs Ian’s beer, rushing forward to hand it to him. He shouts, “Cheers, man!” as he clanks their glasses together.

Ian really doesn’t have the heart to remind him that they’re on opposite teams. Instead, he smiles and takes a long pull of his drink.

“Well, well,” Mickey says with a grin. He raises his glass of whiskey, taps it against Ian’s bottle, and says, “Look at you, Mr. Lucky Strike.”

“Thought it was talent—not luck—that lands a strike?” Ian asks, furrowing his brow.

“Yeah, talent for _me,”_ Mickey quips. “For you? Nah, you just got lucky.”

Ian hums. “Weird how that works, isn’t it?”

“Don’t seem that weird to me,” Mickey says.

Lip and Tami step up to bowl their turn, in the midst of a friendly (but rather heated) shit-talking argument between one another.

With everyone otherwise occupied, Mickey beckons Ian towards him as he steps away from the lanes. He moves in the direction of the bathroom, and Ian follows. Quickly.

“Smoke break,” Ian announces over his shoulder, to no one in particular.

Thankfully, whether Ian’s taking a smoke break or fucking in a bathroom stall, nobody is paying him any attention.

Not that he’s actually about to fuck in a bathroom stall— _he’s not—_ but, sure, the thought may have fleetingly occurred to him.

There’s a drum-heavy pop song blasting through the alley’s speakers, louder in the bathroom, as Mickey pushes open the door. Ian doesn’t recognize it, but he finds himself walking to its beat, eyes locked on Mickey’s every move.

It’s decently sized, with two sinks set deep within a marble countertop. Since it’s a multi-user facility, they can’t exactly lock the door.

But Ian really, _really_ doesn’t care.

“You think you got any more strikes left in you tonight, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, leaning against the wall beside the counter.

There’s no doubt in Ian’s mind that Mickey is deliberately messing with him, as he licks at the corner of his mouth with a growing smirk on his face.

The tension between them is palpable _._

Mickey is giving him an opportunity, and— _fuck it—_ Ian is going to shoot a fucking shot.

“Maybe one or two,” Ian says, taking a step closer to him. He looks into Mickey’s eyes, and very boldly adds, “With you.”

It should be cringey, but Mickey looks like he’s baited and hooked by Ian’s words.

“You got a much better chance with me than you do with bowling, so—” Mickey trails off, grinning as Ian sets his hand against the wall beside Mickey’s head.

“I must be doing something right, then,” Ian says, leaning down to touch his lips to Mickey’s neck. He whispers, “Because I _really_ don’t give a shit about bowling,” against the skin just below Mickey’s ear.

Mickey exhales and tilts his head to the side, giving Ian more access.

Ian’s heart pounds hard within his chest, heightened by the beat of the music, as he starts to pepper a trail of kisses down Mickey’s neck.

The song ends, suddenly, followed by the beginning of a familiar guitar riff that Ian knows well. He parts his lips, letting his tongue brush across the underside of Mickey’s jaw.

“Tennessee Whiskey,” Mickey says, softly. Ian pulls away to look at him; eyes closed with his head resting back against the wall. Mickey opens his eyes slowly, and smiles when he says, “Always liked this song.”

Ian nods and leans back in, kisses him on the mouth, and adds, “That’s because you’re made of—like, sixty percent whiskey, at least.”

Mickey reaches for the collar of Ian’s shirt, pulling him closer to his body.

“You wanna find out?” he asks, swiping his tongue across Ian’s mouth.

Something inside of Ian—that last, tiny, shriveled up piece of self restraint—snaps in half like a fucking twig, as he grabs for Mickey’s hips to shove him hard into the counter.

_You’re as smooth as Tennessee whiskey_

Mickey grunts at the impact, and within seconds they’re kissing and _kissing_ like they need each other’s air to breathe. Ian reaches up to hold the back of Mickey’s head with one hand, while he grips onto his waist with the other.

_You’re as sweet as strawberry wine_

After waiting nearly a week to touch and taste Mickey like this again, his head is spinning, and he can’t fucking get enough. He reaches down to grab onto Mickey’s thigh, digging his fingers into Mickey’s jeans, wishing _so fucking badly_ that he could get them off right now.

_You’re as warm as a glass of brandy_

Mickey lifts his leg up, further into Ian’s grip. He squeezes it against Ian’s hip, trying to get closer to him like he just can’t get close enough. It feels like too much and _not enough_ all at once.

God, there’s just something about the way Mickey melts under his touch; the way Mickey moans out soft, needy sounds into his mouth as Ian swallows them down, one by one.

_And honey I stay stoned on your love all the time_

_“Fuck,”_ Mickey huffs out under his breath, reaching back to flatten his palms down on the sink counter behind them.

He jumps up to sit on its edge, as the second verse of the song plays on.

Ian is hardly thinking anymore. He immediately pulls Mickey forward by the underside of his thighs, smiling at the surprised sound that gets caught in the back of Mickey’s throat.

Mickey follows Ian’s lead, hiking his legs up to wrap them tightly around Ian’s waist, until their bodies are completely pressed together with Ian hovering over him.

“I fucking want you,” Ian says— _admits—_ as he licks playfully into Mickey’s mouth. “You’re making me want you _so fucking badly.”_

Fuck it, right? It’s not like it’s a goddamn secret.

Ian feels like he’s going to combust.

They need to stop if they’re going to stop, and Ian knows damn well that they’re not _actually_ about to fuck in the bathroom of a bowling alley.

But—he doesn’t _want to stop,_ because it’s a fucking crime to even consider peeling himself away from Mickey when he has him like this.

How the _fuck_ can Ian be expected to make any sort of rational decision right now?

“Come home with me tonight,” Mickey whispers, breaking their kiss again, just enough to form the words. “Fuck, _please.”_

_You’re as smooth as Tennessee whiskey_

He nips at Ian’s bottom lip, lingering close like he’s ready to dive back in. He meets Ian’s eyes and smiles, and Ian has never seen a mouth look so, _so_ fucking inviting, the way Mickey’s does right now.

_You’re as sweet as strawberry wine_

“Yeah,” Ian says, bumping their lips together as he speaks. “Shit, Mickey— _yeah.”_

_You’re as warm as a glass of brandy_

“You like that idea?” Mickey teases, nipping at Ian’s bottom lip. He closes his lips over Ian’s once more, and adds, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

_Honey I stay stoned on your love all the time_

And then, because making out half on top of each other in a public restroom isn’t the smartest thing Ian has ever done, he’s not at all surprised when he suddenly hears the very judgmental clearing of someone’s throat.

“Jesus, Ian. I sure hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

Ian winces at the unmistakable sound of his older brother’s voice, as he and Mickey immediately—albeit reluctantly—begin to unravel from one another.

Out of absolutely everyone that could have walked in on them, it really had to be Lip.

“Because, in order for me to be interrupting something like what I _think_ I just saw, it seems as though your whole _fake boyfriend_ charade would have to be complete bullshit.”

Okay, Lip. No shit, Lip.

Point fucking taken.

No matter how many times Ian and Lip have talked about this, that doesn’t make it okay for Lip to run his mouth off about it right now, with Mickey right fucking here with them.

Ian gives Lip a warning glare. _Please, for the love of fucking God, don’t say anything else._

“How ‘bout you mind your own fuckin’ business?” Mickey suggests, tone dripping with attitude.

And, well, he makes a fair point.

Ian takes note of Mickey's disheveled appearance as he hops down from the counter. He’s still a bit breathless as he smooths out his shirt, and Ian hates himself for _liking that_ right now.

“It’s hard to mind my _own fucking business_ when I find the two of you ready to bang it out across the bathroom counter,” Lip argues.

Okay. Lip makes a fair point, too.

“Not really, though,” Mickey says. “Ain’t your life. Or your problem.”

Another good point. However, Ian really doesn’t need them arguing with each other about this.

Lip stares between the two of them for a moment, as if he’s considering Mickey’s words.

“Lip—” Ian begins, cautiously.

They share another glare. _Come on, Lip. Let it fucking go._

“Anyway, Mickey—just thought you should know that your cousin has gone from drunk to monumentally shitfaced,” Lip explains, changing the subject. “She just got herself kicked out for running up and down one of the bowling lanes.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows and huffs sharply, clearly frustrated as he walks swiftly past Lip and exits through the bathroom door without another word.

Ian watches him leave, immediately turning away from Lip’s gaze once they’re left alone. He switches on the faucet, needlessly washing his hands in an attempt to avoid a potential conversation.

“You gonna say anything?” Lip asks.

Ian meets his eyes through the mirror and calmly asks, “About what?”

Lip sighs, stepping forward to stand beside him.

“Look, man. You’re obviously not gonna take my advice with this, and I realize that—”

“Do you?” Ian asks, cutting him off.

When Lip doesn’t say anything, Ian continues.

“Do you— _realize_ it? _”_ Ian clarifies, raising his voice slightly. “I know you think it’s a bad idea, okay? You’ve been giving me shit about him from the beginning. But, _Jesus,_ Lip. He’s right, isn’t he? This isn’t your business, and I just—I need you to stay the fuck out of it.”

Lip remains quiet, nodding his head slowly.

“So can you _please_ just stay the fuck out of it?” Ian asks, turning away from the mirror to look at Lip directly.

“Yeah,” Lip says.

“Yeah, _what?”_ Ian questions.

He wants to hear Lip say it directly.

“Yeah, I’ll stay the fuck out of it,” Lip says, defeatedly. “But if this blows up in your face—and you end up in the middle of a lawsuit—you hand over the rights for me to say ‘ _I told you so.’”_

Ian snorts. “A lawsuit? Who the fuck is suing me in this scenario? _Mickey?”_

“Yeah, Mickey,” Lip confirms.

“Shows how much you know,” Ian says, loosening up the conversation with a smile. “I had this discussion with Mickey last weekend, and he already agreed to _not_ sue me.”

Lip grins at that, making a face like he’s pretending to be shocked.

“Wow. Well, I stand corrected. Sounds like a legitimate contract. Did you guys shake on it? Or—binding blowjobs?”

Ian rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah. Something like that.”

Setting a hand on Ian’s shoulder, Lip squeezes gently; offering a truce of brotherly affection. It’s reassuring, sort of like a weight is instantly lifted from Ian’s chest, to know that Lip respects him enough to leave this alone.

Lip isn’t protecting Ian from anything, by inserting himself into Ian and Mickey’s business.

No matter how stupid or unconventional that business may be.

* * *

Ian has certainly had his fair share of embarrassing, drunken nights. He’s had nights he can’t remember, and nights he wishes he could forget. So, while he’s in no position to judge Sandy for her current state of intoxication, he also can’t help his amusement.

He lights a cigarette, watching Mickey’s third desperate attempt at peeling Sandy up from the ground. She’s laughing hysterically, flailing her arms around and muttering something about how the bowling alley employees are _homophobic dickbags_ for kicking her out.

“They’re not—Jesus _,_ will you shut the fuck up?” Mickey groans, pulling uselessly at her arm.

She swats him away and rolls over, face planting dramatically into the grass.

If Ian didn’t know better, he’d swear that steam was blowing out through both of Mickey’s ears.

“We should probably choose a less homophobic bowling alley next time, huh?” Ian calls out, holding back his laughter when Mickey glares at him.

“Hilarious,” Mickey says, raising his middle finger in Ian’s direction. “You wanna make yourself useful and fuckin’ help me, or what?”

Ian smiles and says, “I don’t know. You’re keeping me pretty entertained, actually.”

“I’m so glad I can provide you with such quality amusement,” Mickey grouses, stepping away from Sandy and angrily kicking a stone across the parking lot.

Mickey stews in his own frustration for a few more seconds, before Ian finally takes pity on him.

It’s just—Mickey is cute when he’s grumpy.

Ian tosses his cigarette to the concrete, stubs it out with his foot, and walks over to where Mickey is standing, just a few feet away from Sandy’s deadweight body.

“Should we just throw her into the Jeep and drive her the fuck home?” Mickey asks.

Sandy mumbles something, voice muffled by the grass, and Mickey turns back to her with raised eyebrows.

“You wanna try that again? Can’t hear your drunk ass,” Mickey says, tapping his foot against her back.

She manages to roll herself over, and slurs out, “Locked m’self out, Mick. Gotta call my landlord tomorrow.”

Mickey’s face falls instantly, and Ian understands without Mickey needing to say a word.

If Sandy can’t get into her apartment, she’s going to be sleeping at Mickey’s place tonight.

“Congrats,” Mickey says. “Next time someone asks if you’ve ever slept in a bowling alley parking lot, you can say _yes_.”

Sandy mumbles, “Mick—”

 _“No,”_ Mickey interrupts, sharply. “Don’t gimme that _Mick_ shit. This is your dumbass mistake. Fuckin’ figure it out yourself.”

“Mickey, we can’t just leave her here,” Ian says. “You’re not actually serious—are you?”

Mickey frowns, clicking his tongue.

He doesn’t answer.

He’s really just in full blown tantrum mode, if Ian had to describe it.

“I’ll drive you guys to the loft,” Ian says. “She needs water, Tylenol, and a bed. Like, now.”

They spend a few frustrating minutes prying Sandy out of the grass, before walking her to the Jeep like a toddler. Mickey struggles to shove her through its back door, until she falls across the row of seats with a thud.

Meanwhile, Ian says his goodbyes, and thanks everyone for making tonight so special. He watches as Mickey hops into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him and waving dismissively through the window.

Mickey’s anger is hardly unfounded, but it’s also not doing him any good. Ian gets into the Jeep and glances at him. His arms are folded grumpily across his chest as he stares straight ahead through the windshield.

“You’re a good cousin,” Ian says as he switches on the engine.

Mickey snorts. “I’m _not_ a good cousin. You’re _makin’_ me do this shit, ‘cause you’re a fuckin’ bitch.”

“ _Or_ —you are a good cousin, and I’m not buying that hardass bullshit act you’ve got going on right now,” Ian argues.

“Fine,” Mickey grumbles. He sighs after a moment, and adds, “Just didn’t want our night to end with _Sandy,_ y’know?”

Yeah, Ian knows.

It’s not exactly his first choice, either.

* * *

Watching Sandy stumble her way into Mickey’s guest room is sort of like watching a baby deer attempting to walk for the first time.

Mickey guides her towards the bed, despite his glowering irritation, while she mumbles on about something that Ian can’t quite comprehend.

“Okay, Shitface Sandy, whatever the fuck you say,” Mickey gripes out.

He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him, rubbing a hand down his face.

“She’s basically passed out,” he continues. “Left her water and Tylenol and shit next to the bed. Who the fuck gets shiftaced at midnight bowling, anyway?”

Sandy, apparently, is the unfortunate answer to Mickey’s unfortunate question.

“It takes some real effort,” Ian says with a grin. “And, if I had to guess, maybe about five or six unforgiving shooters.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, grabbing two cans of beer from the fridge. He cracks the lid and hands one to Ian before opening his own.

Ian looks up at Mickey, and he’s caught a little bit off guard.

Honestly, once Mickey and Sandy were safely back at the loft, Ian fully expected to head home.

In fact, he expected to _be_ _expected_ to head home, assuming that any chances of spending the night had gone flying out the window the moment Sandy realized she was locked out.

“She can sleep it the fuck off,” Mickey says, dismissively. “You wanna—” he pauses, gestures towards the couch, and says, “Wanna watch a movie or somethin’?”

Yeah, of course he does.

This is the first time they’ve been back in this sort of scenario since they hooked up last Saturday, and it’s hard for Ian to gauge what the fuck he should or shouldn’t be expecting now, when he and Mickey end up alone together.

There’s a _feeling_ between them; the kind of feeling that leaves Ian in a constant state of wonder. A constant state of back and forth.

He feels like he’s playing a fucked up game of tug-of-war—being pulled one way by a strengthening friendship, while being yanked in the opposite direction by whatever the fuck is sparking between them.

He _knows_ that something would have happened tonight, but the vibe is mostly dead with someone else in the loft with them. Mostly.

The guest room is closed off, but Mickey’s bed is out in the open, with the entire upper portion of the loft serving as his room.

It’s a little bit of a mood killer, to know that Sandy could come out at any moment.

And it’s not like he was expecting anything in particular, but Mickey didn’t exactly seem shy or nonchalant, when he asked Ian to come home with him tonight.

Ian doesn’t really care what happens, tonight or any night, as long as he gets to spend more time with him. Something will happen when the moment is right, probably.

Que sera, sera—and all that shit, right?

Despite the derailing of their plans, Ian feels pretty fucking happy right now, knowing that Mickey still wants to hang out, anyway.

* * *

They make it through about an hour of Schitt’s Creek binging on Netflix, before Ian begins to lose interest. He looks over at Mickey, watching him sip steadily on his beer, comfy and relaxed with his feet resting beside Ian’s up on the coffee table.

Ian is moderately buzzed.

He’s been drifting back and forth between buzzed and sober for much of the night, keeping his drinks well-paced and his decisions _smart._

Relatively speaking, anyway.

Mickey glances at him, raises an eyebrow, an asks, “The fuck are you lookin’ at?”

Ian shrugs and shakes his head. He’s smiling, though, and he knows Mickey isn’t about to let him off the hook without getting a better answer than that.

 _“What?”_ Mickey repeats, sitting upright and dropping his feet to the floor.

“Nothing, I just—” Ian pauses, searching for the right words. After a few seconds, he adds, “I was just thinking about how ridiculous tonight was.”

“Ridiculous how?” Mickey asks.

Ian chuckles and says, “I mean ridiculous like—making out on a dirty bathroom counter while _Tennessee Whiskey_ blasts through the speakers—kind of ridiculous.”

Mickey scratches at the temple of his forehead, and he almost looks like he’s blushing. _Almost._

“Which part was ridiculous?” he asks, smiling as he meets Ian’s eyes. “Makin’ out on a dirty bathroom counter—or Tennessee Whiskey playin’ at a fuckin’ bowling alley?”

“Oh, _definitely_ Tennessee Whiskey playing at a bowling alley,” Ian clarifies.

“Good answer,” Mickey says. “‘Cause everything else was fuckin’ hot, y’know. And the counter wasn’t really _that_ dirty.”

Ian leans his head back against the couch cushion, watching Mickey closely.

“Hot, huh? What about the kisses?”

Mickey stares back at him, like he’s not quite following. His eyes fall to Ian’s lips as he asks, “What about them?”

“I mean—was the kissing hot for you?” Ian asks, slowly wetting his lips with his tongue.

Okay, so maybe the moderate buzz has gone to his head, just a little. And maybe he’s riding a slight wave of confidence, too.

“No shit it was fuckin’ hot,” Mickey says, flicking his hand up. “Wanted more, but _someone_ insisted on bein’ a big fuckin’ hero for my drunk bitch of a cousin.”

Yeah, Mickey is definitely at least moderately buzzed, too. The honesty is doing wonders for Ian’s ego, while feeding a very satisfying meal to his hideously inappropriate feelings.

 _“But,_ what you’re saying is—you like kissing me,” Ian teases, ignoring Mickey’s other comments.

“Fuck you is what I’m sayin’,” Mickey snaps back, dismissively. “Speak for yourself, bitch.”

“What you’re really saying is— _Ian, I wanna kiss you again, so fucking bad—_ ”

Mickey snorts, holding his hand out to push back against Ian’s chest. He tries to keep his face stoic, but an obvious smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he says, “You stay the fuck away from me, Gallagher.”

Ian shakes his head.

“No,” he says, grabbing for Mickey’s wrist. He gently pulls Mickey’s hand away from his chest.

Mickey moves closer to him, maybe without realizing, and Ian catches him biting down on his bottom lip. Ian doesn’t think it’s meant to be enticing—more like Mickey is anticipating Ian’s next move.

“No?” Mickey repeats, raises an eyebrow, and says, “What a compelling argument.”

Ian grins, leaning down to press a soft kiss into Mickey’s neck. Mickey hums pleasantly, and it’s almost like he can’t resist, as he leans into the light touch of Ian’s lips.

Mickey sure talks a lot of shit for someone who crumbles _so easily._

Of course, Ian knows this isn’t going anywhere.

But he also knows that kisses don’t have to lead to anything more, as he shuffles his body closer and sets a hand on Mickey’s thigh—and his world turns fucking sideways when Mickey suddenly grabs his face to kiss him hard on the mouth.

Ian smiles into it, immediately kissing back.

The light, fluttery feeling in his belly—the one that’s been there all fucking night—becomes incredibly overwhelming when Mickey smiles back, kissing Ian through a beaming grin that quickly turns into an outburst of laughter.

Of all the kisses they’ve shared, both heated and sweet, Ian really finds himself becoming partial to these smiley, laughing kisses; the ones that leave him giddy and warm and _happy._

It’s becoming more comfortable, now. Less stressful and more exciting. Like it’s no longer some big, scary thing to share kisses on the couch, even with someone passed out in the next room.

“Don’t be shy, Gallagher,” Mickey mumbles against Ian’s lips. He leans back and pulls Ian towards him, until his back is flat against the cushions. He teases, “Kiss me like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, leans down until they’re face to face again, and kisses him _more._ With a decent amount of pressure, a little bit of tongue, and a whole lot of finesse.

And, yeah, he fucking means it.

He drags his tongue along Mickey’s bottom lip, and thinks about how _good_ this feels.

How good it feels to kiss Mickey on his couch at 2 a.m. after spending all night hanging out.

How good it feels to just _be with him,_ even when things don’t go exactly as planned.

Because this is okay. It’s so, so fucking okay.

Ian likes this, even if the kisses are _just kisses_.

Mickey pulls back after a few seconds, and Ian holds his breath when their eyes meet. He notices that Mickey’s hand is resting on the side of his neck, and his thumb is stroking idly back and forth.

Ian feels like something is hitting him in the chest, and it’s taking every ounce of his self control to keep from saying something that he _really_ shouldn’t say. He doesn’t let himself focus on it enough to know what it is.

“D’you—uh—” Mickey pauses, eyes dropping back down to Ian’s lips. “You still gonna stay over, right?”

Ian swallows.

It’s late, and Ian doesn’t really have any reason to go home. He doesn’t _want_ to go home.

And, maybe he wasn’t really planning on it, anyway.

“If that’s okay,” Ian says, softly.

He licks his lips, and Mickey is so fucking _focused_ on them _._

“Don’t matter to me,” Mickey says.

He’s trying so hard to sound indifferent, but it’s obvious—he seems _nervous_ in a way that he normally isn’t.

Ian doesn’t want him to be.

But Ian feels it, too.

It’s not an _uncomfortable_ nervous—more like uncertainty. Because, yeah. Something was going to happen tonight, and maybe that’s still looming over their heads, just a little bit.

The nature of their relationship is confusing, after all. Ian thinks Mickey might be struggling with that same mental tug-of-war, even if his feelings aren’t exactly the same.

But, they’re friends. Fake boyfriends but real friends, and this doesn’t have to be weird.

It’s _not_ weird.

“Okay, but—if we’re gonna have a sleepover, can we at least have some snacks?” Ian asks, attempting to pop some of the tension. “You can’t just invite me to a sleepover without snacks.”

Mickey appears to relax at Ian’s words, and then he pulls a face like he’s annoyed.

“I didn’t _invite_ you to a fuckin’ sleepover,” Mickey begins, standing up from the couch. He walks towards the kitchen and motions for Ian to follow behind. “We got popcorn, and—that’s it, ‘cause I gotta go to fuckin’ Costco tomorrow.”

“I suppose popcorn will do,” Ian says.

“Glad it suits your needs. Who the fuck makes demands in another man’s home, anyway? You got no manners, Gallagher.”

“But—I own the building,” Ian retorts. “You should at least have snacks handy for _me,_ shouldn’t you?”

He is _completely_ fucking kidding, and he’s confident that Mickey knows that.

Mickey stares at him for a moment, and then his expression changes like he has an idea. He points upstairs, and says, “How ‘bout weed? That’s a fuckin’ snack, right?”

By definition, yes. Ian thinks so.

He says, “It’s more like a treat, I think.”

* * *

It’s a treat, indeed.

Mickey doesn’t mess around when it comes to weed. He and Sandy always have high quality shit; potent and packing just the right amount of punch. They sell it sometimes, and Mickey has been making some good side money out of his tattoo shop by dealing.

He always seems to have some of his own personal stock handy, and Ian appreciates his willingness to share.

This strain isn’t the same as whatever they shared last week, but Ian still feels it hitting him hard. He feels really, _really_ good _._

He’s not horny or fired up per se, as much as he’s mellowed out and really just straight up stoned. It took him quite a while to get to this point last time, going through the motions first, coasting on a high that lasted hours.

Tonight, his mind feels like molasses and his body feels heavy. They’re pressed shoulder to shoulder in Mickey’s bed, both lounging in tank tops and boxers. Mickey is deadweight beside him, with one of his legs hooked between Ian’s.

They’ve smoked a joint down to nothing between the two of them, and—well, if their other plans had to get ruined, this is a delightfully pleasant consolation prize.

“M’gonna fall asleep,” Mickey says, absently.

His speech sounds lazy and drawled.

“Wait,” Ian says, reaching over to grab a fistful of Mickey’s tank top.

“Wait—huh?” Mickey mumbles, smiling at Ian with heavy eyes.

It takes every ounce of strength that Ian can muster to roll himself over onto his belly. He drapes himself half on top of Mickey, leans down, and kisses him.

Mickey makes a noise and immediately parts his lips, maybe not _quite_ as ready to fall asleep as he thought. They’re making out in no time at all; the kind of measured, languid kisses that ignite a slow burning simmer deep in the pit of Ian’s stomach.

And that’s what Ian needs, right now. Nothing rushed, or building up to anything else.

They stay like that for a while, lost in a thick fog around each other, drowning in the push and pull of eager lips gone dry from a good high.

It’s such an understatement— _a good high_.

This isn’t just a good high.

This is dreamy and soothing, lulling Ian into a reverie that starts and ends with Mickey’s lips on his lips, and Mickey’s tongue on his tongue. And that’s what it’s been all fucking night—kissing and tasting and touching and _wanting._

Wanting, wanting, wanting.

And that’s just how it fucking goes, when Ian starts to rock down against Mickey, searching for friction, even in the midst of a heavy high.

By the time he realizes, he’s already well on his way to humping himself into an unceremonious orgasm.

An hour ago, he fully expected the weed to knock him into a deep, dead-to-the-world sort of sleep.

Although, to be fair, he’s likely going to end up there _anyway._ Just—not quite yet.

He’s been so fucking wound up all night, with so much _almost_ and no relief. With so much _wanting_ and no having. Which was okay. It was so fucking okay, and it’s not like he expected this, with Sandy sleeping soundly in the guest room.

But— _oh fuck—_ this feels too good. Too fucking good. It’s not at all like last time, but he likes it.

His body feels heavier and he’s less aware of his movements, but the steady rock of his hips down against Mickey is really all he needs.

 _“Ian,”_ Mickey’s voice breaks suddenly, pulling Ian into a blurry, unfocused sort of awareness. He pushes up against Ian’s hips, and _he’s so fucking hard._ He punches out an, “ _Oh, yeah,”_ into Ian’s mouth, as Ian swallows every breath and every sound that spills from his lips.

God, all Ian wanted were _kisses._

Just fucking kisses. Heavy, stoned kisses—and he genuinely thought it would end there, for tonight.

But now it’s heavy, stoned kisses with Mickey moaning beneath Ian, Ian moaning on top of Mickey, and a smooth roll of body on body.

Jesus Christ, it’s not like this comes as any real fucking surprise. Mixing Mickey with weed and alcohol seems to have the same consistently wanton outcome every goddamn time, and Ian can’t fucking help himself.

And, oh my God, _he just doesn’t care._

He doesn’t care, because Mickey’s body feels so fucking good underneath him. He doesn’t care, because Mickey’s hands are under his shirt, pressing into his back, his sides, his hips. He doesn’t care, because he’s so fucking stoned and every touch of Mickey’s fingertips ignites another set of nerves beneath his skin.

“Fuck, _you’re so hot,”_ Ian says, voice whisper-quiet and breathy.

He’s aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he needs to be wary of the shit coming out of his mouth right now. He can chalk a lot of shit up to being stoned, but only _so much._

Mickey gasps, wrapping his arms tightly around Ian’s back, clinging onto him. It’s building fast but they’re moving _slow,_ and Ian, imaginative yet predictable, can’t stop thinking about how good it would feel to fuck into Mickey with these same slow, deep, rhythmic thrusts.

“Oh, _oh,”_ Mickey breathes out, tilting his head to the side and pushing it back into the pillow. “Ian, _fuck.”_

Ian makes a faint mental note that Mickey tends to call him _Ian_ in bed, while he otherwise generally uses his last name.

He’s noticed it a few times, both tonight and last weekend, and something about it sends a shiver down his spine, pushing him that much closer to the edge.

And just as he gets closer—just as that warm, coiling pleasure begins to unwind—Mickey’s body arches up against Ian, while his thighs squeeze hard against both sides of Ian’s torso. He’s about to come, Ian can tell, as the dull edge of Mickey’s nails scratch desperately down his back.

Fuck, fuck, _yes._

It hits Ian so fucking hard, causing his hips to give a hard jolt when his body starts to shake.

His senses spiral out of control; like every sensation within him turns deliciously white-hot, mixing together until he’s coming untouched with a breathless gasp of, _“Oh, fuck, Mickey.”_

 _Oh, fuck, Mickey;_ one of the only lucid thoughts in Ian’s hazy, sex-addled brain. His shaky, staccato breaths blow hot puffs of air into Mickey’s neck, as Mickey squirms beneath him, moaning Ian’s name again _and again_ through his own orgasm.

“Oh, my fuckin’ God,” Mickey says on an exhale. He goes from tense and shaky to soft and pliant, as he sinks down into the mattress. “ _Damn,_ Gallagher. Wasn’t expecting that shit tonight.”

Ian nods, sort of, with a dazed, sluggish smile.

His body feels heavy and weighty as he lies half on top of Mickey, idly tracing shapes up and down his arm.

And after several peaceful minutes of silence, Ian suddenly erupts into a fit of loud, goofy laughter.

Which, of course, causes Mickey to start laughing, too.

“How come every damn time we do this shit—” Mickey pauses, trying to speak through his giggles. “—you start to fuckin’ laugh after?”

Stupid question. He’s been fucking baked ( _and fucking elated_ ) every time, that’s fucking why.

“As if you’re not laughing right now,” Ian argues, smiling when Mickey looks up into his eyes. “You keep getting me high as a motherfucking kite—that’s why, you fucking shit-talker.”

He knocks his fist into Mickey’s shoulder, playfully.

“ _‘Aye—_ watch it. Better not bite the hand that feeds you, bitch,” Mickey teases.

They’re still looking into each other’s eyes, going back and forth with obvious amusement.

“Oh, never,” Ian says. “I’m not about to offend the source of my weed, thank you very much.”

“That’s all I am to you, huh?” Mickey sticks out his bottom lip, pouting. “Offensive, Gallagher.”

Shit, it’s so distracting. Mickey’s entire goddamn mouth is always a distraction, but his bottom lip looks especially inviting, right now. So inviting that Ian leans down and sucks his lips around it, with just a light touch of tongue.

He pulls back and whispers, “Nobody likes a pouter, Mick.”

“Mm,” Mickey licks his lips, smiles, and says, “Think we both know that ain’t true.”

The butterflies in Ian’s stomach—the ones that, at this point, have taken up permanent residence _without paying rent_ —are currently doing swan dives, while Ian considers Mickey’s words.

 _We both know that ain’t true—_ what the fuck does he mean by that?

Is he implying that he knows Ian _likes_ him?

Not even just _likes_ him, but _really fucking likes him_. Really fucking likes him with a fiery, soul-crushing passion.

Does Mickey know?

Ian feels like his fight or flight response is kicking in, and he’s pretty certain that he’s about to fly right the fuck out of there, until Mickey pulls him closer and kisses him.

And, oh, okay. That helps.

The second that Mickey’s mouth touches Ian’s lips, his intrusive thoughts sort of just—fly away.

Which, more importantly, means that Ian _doesn’t have to._ It’s almost ridiculous how quickly he can be pacified; sufficiently anchored down by Mickey’s soft, smiley kisses.

That voice in the back of Ian’s head reminds him, very adamantly, that this will only work for as long as Ian doesn’t overthink it.

So, he needs to get his shit together, and he needs to _not think about it._ At all. Ever.

 _Really,_ he won’t.

They pull apart again, and Mickey’s expression is a little bit overwhelming, as Ian looks down at him. God, he looks so beautiful—unguarded and comfortable, with a smile that Ian has only ever seen when they’re together like this.

It tugs a little too hard on his heartstrings, and—fuck, no. He _really_ needs to get a grip.

No heartstrings. No tugging. No feelings.

Leave it the fuck alone, Ian.

It’s like there’s an overstuffed can of metaphorical worms nestled snugly in the palm of Ian’s hands, and he’s really, _really_ struggling to keep the goddamn lid closed, while it constantly threatens to pop open.

It needs to stay closed.

Locked. Sealed. Closed.

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Mickey says, quietly, closing his eyes as he turns away from Ian and settles down into his pillow. He mumbles, “Think less, sleep more.”

Okay, yeah. Great idea. Nothing would make Ian happier than to _stop thinking._ Forever.

For the rest of his life.

Less thinking. Ian can do that.

If he doesn’t think, then he can’t open the can of metaphorical worms.

And if he can’t open the can of metaphorical worms, then all of his wiggly, wormy feelings can’t crawl out of their container to make a disastrous mess of everything in Ian’s life.

He won’t let that happen.

Really, he fucking won’t.

Or, at the very least— _not on purpose_.

* * *

At some point on Saturday, long after daylight arrives to shine through the upper window of the loft, Ian wakes up pressed against Mickey’s back, with his arm draped across his body.

Which is, Ian assumes, a completely _normal_ occurrence, while sharing a bed with your fake boyfriend-turned-fuck buddy.

But he’s not overthinking it, because he simply is no longer thinking about anything, ever again, as he attempts to avoid an emotional catastrophe.

And so, Ian looks at Mickey.

He’s sleeping soundly, peaceful with softened features, as his chest rises and falls. He looks—well, he looks kind of beautiful, like this.

It occurs to Ian, again, that he has no idea what he’s doing. He so badly wants to be able to say these things out loud.

_You’re kind of beautiful._

_You make me happy._

_I like you so fucking much._

He's not thinking, though.

He's just being observant.

And self-aware.

While lying to himself.

He fully fucking realizes that when Lip talks about Ian being on a slippery slope, that’s not only true—it’s also a gross understatement.

Maybe the two of them are being fucking foolish, for keeping things up the way they are.

There’s nothing remotely fake about the way Ian feels, but he’s just so fucking terrified to ruin it.

Can of worms, Ian. _Leave it alone, Ian._

Realistically, he can’t hide from this. He can’t hide, but he can definitely keep pretending.

Unless he wants this to come to a screeching halt, he needs to keep pretending.

Because here’s Mickey, still relatively fresh out of a shitty guy situation, uninterested in getting himself thrown into the crossfires of a new one.

So, what the fuck are they even doing?

_What the fuck is Ian doing?_

This certainly has absolutely nothing to do with Ryan anymore, and let’s face it—for Ian, it wasn’t _really_ ever about Ryan to begin with.

Ian isn’t stupid.

Or, he’s not _completely_ stupid, although many of his not-so-brilliant choices might be.

Regardless, he knows damn well that combining fake boyfriends and friends with benefits makes absolutely no fucking sense.

Add Ian’s feelings into the mix and the entire situation becomes a fucking dumpster fire, constantly threatening to blow up in his face.

So, logically—Ian could just fucking _tell Mickey the truth._ He could tell him how he feels.

But there’s that big fucking _what if._

What if Mickey is happy with how things are?

No commitment, no feelings. Just fun.

If Ian feels anything more than that, that’s his own goddamn fault for letting his feelings confuse the fuck out of whatever they’re doing.

Ian doesn’t need to swing in like a wrecking ball and ruin all of this, if Mickey is happy with the way things are.

Maybe that ought to be enough for Ian, too.

Things can stay like this, and remain completely uncomplicated, if Ian can just convince himself that it’s enough.

Because it really has to be enough.

Despite Ian’s conflicting inner monologue, he hasn’t actually bothered to move _away_ from Mickey. He’s still serving as the big spoon to Mickey’s little spoon, hugging him from behind, when Mickey finally shows his first sign of life.

He yawns and stretches his body, taking Ian by surprise when he slides one of his legs back between both of Ian’s, shifting until they’re comfortably tangled together.

Ian doesn’t say anything, but he _does_ lean into Mickey a little further, nuzzling his face into the back of his neck.

It’s incredibly affectionate. And incredibly _sweet._

Mickey chuckles softly, and his voice comes out raspy when he says, “Glad you’re still here, Gallagher.”

Yeah, Ian’s glad, too.

“Where else would I be?” Ian asks, lifting his head up from the pillow.

“You were gettin’ weird last night,” Mickey says, candidly. He shuffles and turns his body until he’s facing Ian, and before Ian has a chance to react, he adds, “Think the weed spiked your nerves after a while. Does that sometimes, y’know? Just gotta make sure you don’t smoke that kind again.”

Yeah, that’s possible. He didn’t mean to be so obvious about it. In fact, he tried really, really hard to _not_ give himself away.

Weed doesn’t typically make Ian anxious, but it certainly could have shoved him in that direction.

Either way, Ian appreciates Mickey’s honesty.

Ah, yes. Honesty. Such a foreign concept.

“I—yeah. Good point,” Ian says.

Mickey looks at him with sleepy eyes, and smiles softly. God, Ian wants to kiss him. So badly.

But he’s not about to subject Mickey to his horrendous morning breath.

“M’gonna make breakfast, if you’re hungry,” Mickey says. “And a big fuckin’ pot of coffee. I gotta shop before my first appointment later, but I think I got enough for eggs and bacon and shit.”

Ian chuckles.

That sounds fucking delicious, right about now.

“Well, you know I’m not about to turn down _eggs and bacon and shit,”_ Ian says.

“And coffee,” Mickey reminds him.

“Right. Especially coffee.”

They both pull away from each other at the same time, untangling their legs to climb out of bed. Ian is starving, but he could also really use a shower.

He watches as Mickey rummages through his dresser, tossing an array of clean clothes onto the bed.

“Think fast, bitch,” he says, suddenly, chucking a rumpled ball of _something_ at Ian’s head.

Ian scrambles to catch it, and realizes it’s the outfit he let Mickey borrow last weekend; t-shirt, sweats, and boxers, wrapped up nicely in his burnt-orange hoodie.

“ _Weird_. These are exactly my size. How did you know?” Ian jokes, smiling when Mickey grins at him.

“Lucky guess,” Mickey says. He gestures towards the bathroom door, and says, “Shower’s all yours, if you want. I’m gonna get coffee started, so I’ll grab my shower downstairs. Also gotta make sure Sandy’s alive.”

Jesus. Ian almost forgot about Sandy. He really, _really_ hopes that she slept soundly through the night. She certainly had been drunk enough to do so.

Once Mickey heads downstairs, Ian steps into his bathroom, tips back a mouthful of Listerine, and enjoys a very much needed shower.

—

Sandy remains in an alcohol-induced slumber, while Ian helps Mickey cook breakfast. Or, more like brunch, considering it’s about 12:30 by the time they take their showers.

“So, I got like five appointments booked for tonight,” Mickey says, conversationally, as he munches on a crispy slice of bacon. “Kinda excited, man. It feels good to have a booked schedule.”

Ian smiles, taking a sip of his coffee.

“That’s awesome, Mick,” Ian says. “Tons of people have been asking about you down at the lounge, too. It’s cool that you’re getting to the point of turning away walk-ins. I mean—maybe not for them.”

“Great for me, less great for them,” Mickey says, chuckling with a shrug of his shoulders.

Ian is so proud of him. Like, really fucking proud.

He’s a talented artist, and he absolutely deserves to be successful. As his name gets around more, and as more and more lounge customers get his information, he’s covering a huge demographic that will surely continue to grow.

They eat their meals in comfortable silence, both feeling sort of ravenous after a long night.

As Mickey finishes his final bite, he sits back in his chair and smiles.

“You really were incredible last night,” he says, catching Ian off guard. “It was just—really somethin’, to see you up on stage.”

Ian’s cheeks heat up, while he basks in the compliment for just a moment. It means more, somehow, when it’s coming from Mickey.

“Thanks, Mickey—seriously. Thank you.”

“You gonna start doing more gigs, or what?” Mickey asks, curiously.

“Eventually, I think. Just sort of going with the flow right now, I guess,” Ian says. “There are so many small musicians eager for a chance to shine. Just trying to let people have their moment, I guess.”

Mickey nods, and says, “I get that. But you don’t gotta give up _your_ moments for the sake of anyone else, either.”

Huh, yeah.

That’s not the response Ian was expecting.

He’s not necessarily giving up moments for others, but it’s true that he could also be utilizing _more_ of them for himself.

The door to the guest bedroom opens, suddenly, as a very disheveled Sandy comes trudging out, immediately making her way to the bathroom.

She instantly turns on the sink, futilely attempting to hide the predictable consequences of last night’s excessive drinking.

Ian makes a _yikes_ sort of facial expression at the exact same time as Mickey, mirroring each other on accident. They burst into fits of laughter, completely at Sandy’s expense, until Ian hears the sink turn off again.

He reaches across the table to whack Mickey’s arm when he sees the bathroom door opening, and they struggle to hold back their giggles as Sandy stomps her way into the kitchen.

“Not a single fucking word,” she says, pulling a coffee mug out of the cupboard to pour herself a cup.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Mickey snickers. “But if I _was_ gonna say somethin’—I’d say it serves you fuckin’ right, bitch.”

“Relax,” Sandy says, dismissively. “My head is pounding too damn hard to listen to your bitching, right now. I talked to my landlord, so I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Since Ian values his well-being, he keeps his mouth effectively shut as he glances back and forth between them, lips pursed with amusement.

“Eat somethin’, at least,” Mickey says. “Made extra for you. Well— _not me_. Ian did.”

Sandy turns to Ian, offering him a groggy smile. Her expression changes after a moment, and she asks, “Did you spend the night, Boss Man?”

Ian meets Mickey’s eyes over Sandy’s shoulder, and Mickey shrugs, carelessly. His indifference on the matter is kind of humorous.

“I—did,” Ian says, hesitantly.

Sandy raises an eyebrow, humming under her breath while she seems to consider his answer.

Quickly, Ian clarifies, “I drove you both back here. We smoked and had a Schitt’s Creek marathon, which you could have joined if you weren’t—you know—shitfaced and passed out in the guest room.”

Ah, yes. The wonderful art of deflecting, complete with an ambiguous lie.

“Bummer for me,” Sandy says, although she sounds rightfully skeptical. “So sorry I missed that.”

Mickey snorts, tossing his and Ian’s dirty plates into the sink.

They spend a few minutes bustling around the kitchen, cleaning up while Sandy eats her meal.

“Listen—I really am sorry about last night,” Sandy says, suddenly. “But I think I can make it up to you guys, if you want.”

Okay, Ian has to give credit where credit is due.

Sandy is neither stupid nor clueless, and she _knows_ she ruined their night.

At least she’s less annoying about it than Lip has been, from what Ian can tell.

“My friend sort of dropped this dumb, last minute bachelorette trip on me. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow—four days, Sunday until Wednesday, in Detroit. I could really use a driving buddy, and I planned on asking Mickey,” Sandy says. “But, you could both come along, if you want?”

It’s not at all what Ian was expecting.

At first thought, it sounds great. A road trip, a hotel, a few days of letting loose.

But—a trip with Mickey? And Sandy, who is technically one of Ian’s employees?

Not that Ian is winning any awards for his astounding professionalism, or anything.

Still, it’s a little weird.

“I mean, sure. I’ll go,” Mickey says. “I got appointments booked until after midnight tonight, but I can be ready to go tomorrow. Got nothin’ on the schedule until Thursday, anyway.”

Ian doesn’t answer right away, and he realizes that Mickey and Sandy are both looking at him, waiting for a response.

Honestly, fuck it. Why not?

But, just as he’s about to say yes, he realizes that he has two of his own appointments booked this week—a therapy session on Monday, and a check-in with his psychiatrist on Tuesday.

It would be incredibly irresponsible of him to cancel or reschedule either of them.

He sighs, looks at Mickey, and says, “I can’t, Mick. I already have shit going on this week—a couple of appointments that I just—really can’t miss.”

Ian knows he’s making the right decision.

But, despite telling the truth, and despite knowing it’s the right decision, he feels incredibly guilty about saying no.

“No biggie, Gallagher,” Mickey says. “Kinda last minute for a trip, y’know?”

Ian doesn’t miss the way his face falls, though, just a little bit.

“Trust me—I’d much rather come with you,” Ian says. He hesitates for a few seconds, before mustering up the courage to offer a bit more honesty. “I have a therapy session on Monday, and a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday.”

It’s not like he’s about to drown them in the nitty gritty details, but he really needs Mickey to know that he’s telling the truth.

They haven’t discussed Ian’s bipolar disorder, and he’s not really in the mood to drop a mental health bomb, right now.

It’s not that he’s ashamed of it—it’s just not the kind of thing that typically comes up in everyday conversations.

And, really, he hasn’t had a reason to discuss it with Mickey, period.

It seems that mental health discussions fall into a murky category, when distinguishing between real and fake relationships.

Ian’s honesty seems to make all the difference, though, because Mickey’s expression softens considerably upon hearing his explanation.

He smiles and nods his head, as if to say— _Hey man, no worries, I get it._

It’s a discussion for another day, but Ian really appreciates the fact that Mickey isn’t pushing it any further. That sort of respect is something that not everyone shares, when it comes to prying into the lives of those around them.

“So, what the fuck am I gonna do in Detroit?” Mickey asks after a few more seconds, effectively changing the subject.

While he and Sandy begin discussing their game-plan, Mickey glances at Ian once more, offering him a warm, comforting smile.

And, honestly, Ian has never wanted to kiss Mickey more than he does right now.

—

Although Ian is proud of his very responsible, adult decision to not fuck off to Detroit for four days—he also _hates_ the fact that he couldn’t go, with a burning fucking passion.

Sandy and Mickey leave early Sunday morning, and by Sunday night, Ian is already stewing in his own misery.

He can’t wait to spend sixty goddamn minutes complaining to his therapist about missing a trip _because_ of his therapy session.

There will be plenty of other nights to spend with Mickey in the future, and really, Ian needs to stop being so dramatic.

It’s just—nights at Rhythm Recall are always especially boring, when Mickey isn’t around.

Ian can have fun without him, obviously, but he’s almost _always_ there in the back of Ian’s mind.

And usually, Mickey is just one floor away—busy with tattoo appointments, often working late into the night. Usually, even if Mickey isn’t able to stop by, they text each other pointlessly throughout the night, making small talk through whatever obligations they have that definitely _do not_ involve each other.

It definitely feels different, tonight; to know that Mickey isn’t upstairs.

Ian misses him, and maybe he’s throwing a raging pity party for himself, under the circumstances. He’s completely aware of how _pathetic_ it is for him to be thinking this way, but he really just can’t help it.

So, he’s going to sulk over it, for a little while longer.

He thinks about Mickey and Sandy getting drunk together at dive bars, and who the fuck knows what else.

It’s distracting, and leaves an irritating nag in the pit of Ian’s stomach. Sandy knows that he and Mickey aren’t _actually_ dating, which makes Mickey a single man while he’s away.

And it shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t.

But Ian can’t help the fact that it _does._

Mickey obviously isn’t exactly the type to pick up guys and fuck around, for reasons that they’ve already established, but he certainly _could_ be.

God, Ian should have gone.

They could have spent four days getting drunk, or smoking themselves into the fucking clouds.

They could have spent four days making out and messing around, maybe finding an excuse to share a hotel room because _they fucking can._

And yet, Ian is home. By himself. In Chicago.

He’s not spending the next four days getting drunk or high, and he’s not making out in a big, hotel bed with Mickey. No, he’s alone.

And he’s fucking pouting.

He’s also _annoying himself_.

It’s been over three hours since Mickey last texted him, and that’s just another thing that’s got his mind working on overdrive.

He looks around the lounge—band playing, friends dancing. There’s a group of girls having an extremely serious air hockey tournament, and a couple kissing in the photo booth.

After a moment, he turns his attention behind the bar, smiling when V catches his eye.

“What’s up, Ian?” V asks, handing him a Dr. Pepper. “You missing your man tonight?”

Ian sighs. He says, “That obvious, huh?”

“I’m sure he misses you, too,” she says. “Sandy told me he really wanted you to come.”

Huh. He wonders how true that is.

“It’s—” Ian hesitates, trying to find the right words to say. “It’s not like I can’t go four days without him, V. We’ve just been around each other so much lately, you know?”

The progression of their relationship makes it easy to forget, especially when talking to people, that they aren’t _actually_ together.

Because Ian hardly feels like he’s faking anything, anymore.

“You two are practically living in each other’s pockets,” V says. “It’s normal to miss him.”

Ian’s heart gives a little _pang_ within his chest.

He glances down at his phone—still with no new notifications—and he really wants to say _I just don’t know if he has a reason to miss me_.

But, he doesn’t.

“Thanks, V,” Ian says, instead.

He doesn’t think it would be very wise to drag this conversation out any further.

And, because he can’t help himself, he decides to send Mickey a text, first.

_**Ian:** What’s up Mick? How’s Detroit treating you?_

It’s the most nonchalant text that Ian could possibly send—straightforward and to the point.

He watches the screen for exactly thirty seconds, hoping for a response, before flipping it facedown on the bar counter.

And then, about two minutes later, he hears it vibrating—

_**Mickey:** Ian Gallagher_

_**Mickey:** Paginf Ian Gallagher_

_**Mickey:** Hello_

_**Mickey:** I meant PAGING_

Immediately, Ian can’t stop smiling.

Mickey must be drunk—stupidly, obviously drunk—and Ian has never been happier to hear from him.

_**Ian:** Hello Mickey Milkovich_

_**Ian:** You REALLY need to work on those typos_

_**Mickey:** Shut up I’m kindadrunk _

_**Mickey:** We pregamed cuz my bitch cousin wsnted to go bar hoppifn wuth her friend. They just left but I stayed here _

_**Mickey:** But that’s okay cuz I got whiskeys 🥃 _

_**Ian:** Whiskeys… lmao 🤔_

_**Ian:** And how many whiskeys have you had?_

_**Mickey: 🥃🥃🥃🥃** _

**_Mickey:_** That mnay whiskeys

_**Mickey:** Irts not a real word anymkre. Looks like wish key _

_**Ian:** Wtf is a wish key _

_**Mickey:** Maybe like_

_**Mickey:** A key you mske wishes on _

_**Ian:** Do you wish for more whiskeys with your wish key?_

_**Mickey:** No but I fucknfg wish you werhere_

_**Mickey:** Wahnted yiu to come_

_**Mickey:** Judt can’t stop thinkin about you_

Ian instantly feels flushed, rereading the texts a second and third time. The implications feel heavy, as he racks his brain for a response.

He can either humor the subject or derail it completely, with each option likely producing the polar opposite of outcomes.

Ultimately, Ian chooses to go with honesty.

_**Ian:** Yeah… me too_

_**Ian:** What are you thinking about?_

It’s a loaded question, especially knowing that Mickey is drunk.

He responds quickly, in a series of rapid-fire texts that burn through Ian like wildfire.

_**Mickey:** You_

_**Mickey:** On top of me _

_**Mickey:** Kjssinh you _

_**Mickey:** Blowinf you_

For fuck’s sake, Ian thinks he was expecting some flirting—maybe a little bit of teasing—but he wasn’t expecting _that_.

His throat feels completely fucking dry, and he’s about to ask for a much needed glass of water—until his phone starts to ring.

The noise sounds unnaturally loud in his ears, like everything else around him is muted. He stares blankly at his phone, with Mickey’s name lighting up its screen.

He takes a deep breath, and answers the call.

“Hey, boyfriend,” Mickey says. His voice sounds low and breathy as he adds, “That sound good to you? Gettin’ sucked off?”

If Ian could speak without choking, that would be really fucking _swell._

“ _Jesus,_ Mickey,” Ian whispers.

“Never blown a guy before,” Mickey continues. “Want to, though. Been thinkin’ ‘bout it a lot.”

“I—oh. You’ve been thinking about it?” Ian repeats, stupidly.

For the record, Ian has never had any form of phone sex before. He’s willing to be money that Mickey hasn’t either—except Mickey’s inhibitions are currently drowning about four drinks deep.

“Mhm, for a while. Lot more since that first night we got high,” Mickey says, with his speech mildly slurred. “How ‘bout you, Gallagher? You been thinkin’ ‘bout me, too?”

Yes. _Yes._ Fucking constantly.

“Yeah, Mick. I— _yeah_ ,” Ian admits, awkwardly glancing around the room.

“You like that idea?” Mickey asks. “My lips around your cock?”

Ian slaps the palm of his hand up over his mouth.

He needs to go the fuck home.

 _“Mickey,”_ Ian warns. “I’m not—I’m not even home right now. I’m in fucking _public—_ ”

“Where you at?” Mickey asks, cutting him off. “The lounge?”

 _“Yes,”_ he answers through gritted teeth. “Let me call you back.”

“Just go upstairs,” Mickey suggests, like it’s nothing. “The loft? You got a fuckin’ key, right?”

“I—yeah, I have a key. But—”

“Just _go,_ Gallagher. I tell you I wanna fuckin’ blow you, it’s not ‘cause I feel like wastin’ time right now. Wanna get off with you. _Now.”_

Ian doesn’t push the argument further.

With the phone pressed against his ear, he moves through the lounge in a fog.

“You’re certainly proving my whole _sixty-percent whiskey_ theory tonight, huh?” Ian teases, trying to prompt a conversation while Mickey waits for him.

“More like—tonight, s’more like ninety-percent,” Mickey says. He hiccups, and adds, “Smooth as Tennessee whiskey, y’know?”

Ian chuckles and says, “Yeah, you wish.”

He takes the stairs two at a time until he’s unlocking the loft door, stepping inside and closing it behind him. He leans back against the door, licks his lips, and presses the speakerphone button.

“I’m in your apartment,” he says.

“Good,” Mickey replies. “Make yourself comfy, Gallagher. Got that big, empty bed with your name on it.”

Ian needs to relax. If he’s going to do this, he needs to stop thinking and _enjoy it._

Breathe, Ian. Fucking breathe.

“So—” Ian begins, climbing the stairs up to Mickey’s bed. He swallows before saying, “Uh, I believe you were saying something about your lips around my cock?”

The words feel strange on Ian’s tongue, as if he’s so fucking saintly that he’s never spoken dirty words out loud in his life.

But this is just—different, somehow.

Mickey chuckles, makes a pleasant humming noise, and says, “I believe you’re right.

Ian sets the phone down on the bed.

“Don’t be shy,” he says, forcing himself to power through his apprehension. “Tell me about your world-renowned cock-sucking skills, Mick.”

Okay. So maybe he’s not _horrible_ at it.

“Gotta let you be the judge. Never done it before, remember? Just—want to.”

Oh, right.

Then, Mickey adds, “Bet you money I don’t gotta be a fuckin’ expert to make you come in my mouth, though.”

Jesus. Ian isn’t betting anything against that.

 _“Fuck_. You know I would, Mick.”

He sits down on Mickey’s bed, settling back against the headboard.

Something about it feels kind of scandalous, for Ian to be in Mickey’s apartment with such unmistakable intentions.

And Mickey is so fucking confident; like he’s ready to rev Ian up with dirty words and whispered implications, after spending his night drinking alone until the only thing on his mind was _wanting Ian._

He could have gone bar hopping with Sandy tonight. Why the fuck didn’t he go?

She’s living it up somewhere, probably dancing the night away and getting shitfaced with her friends. Probably getting laid if she wants to.

Mickey damn well could have done the same.

He could have gotten wasted at a bar, made his need known, and brought just about fucking anyone back to his hotel room.

To blow. To fuck. To do _anything_ with.

But instead, he’s on the phone with Ian.

“Not even gonna deny it, hm?” Mickey asks, teasing.

Ian smiles and shakes his head, like he forgets that Mickey can’t actually see him. He laughs as he says, “No point in denying it. You have—nice lips. I’ve felt them enough to imagine what it’d be like.”

“Mm, interesting,” Mickey muses. “Maybe woulda done it that night we went bowling, but—”

“Yeah, I know,” Ian says.

He’s still a little bit hesitant; unsure of how far to take this, and uncertain of what Mickey wants to hear.

“What then, Gallagher? After I make you come?”

Ian bites his lip and scoots downs until he’s lying back on Mickey’s pillows.

They smell like him—remnants of shampoo, cologne, and Irish Spring soap.

Fuck, the mixture of scents, so distinctly _Mickey,_ are driving Ian fucking wild _._

He undoes his jeans and spends a few frustrating seconds shimmying out of them, until he’s tossing them to the floor beside Mickey’s bed. He immediately palms at his cock through the fabric of his boxer-briefs, desperate for just a little bit of relief _._

And then, he remembers that he needs to fucking _say something._

Mickey literally invited Ian into his own fucking apartment, _into his own fucking bed_ , for this exact reason.

Come on, Ian. Just fucking _talk to him._

“Why don’t you tell me what you want, Mick—” Ian coaxes. “What sounds good to you? My mouth—on your cock?”

He holds his breath, waiting for Mickey’s response.

 _“Yeah,”_ Mickey whispers, instantly. “Fuck, wanna feel your mouth. Your tongue.”

Yeah, okay.

_This is so hot._

Ian thinks about it; about taking Mickey’s dick into his mouth. About dragging his tongue along its shaft, and licking across the head.

Fuck, it’s turning him on _so fucking much_.

He’d make it so fucking good for him.

“Jesus, Mickey. I know you’ve gotten blown before—but I could make it so much fucking better.”

“Yeah?” Mickey asks. “I know you would, Gallagher. _Fuck—_ I just want your mouth on me.”

Ian exhales sharply, slipping a hand beneath his waistband to wrap around his cock.

He slides it up and down. _Slowly._

“Want to make you come so fucking hard, Mickey,” Ian says, breathy in a haze of arousal.

“Doin’ my best to not fuckin’ come _right now,”_ Mickey says, exhaling harshly into the phone. “Shit. Thinkin’ of your mouth, thinkin’ ‘bout how you taste—”

Ian feels goosebumps rise across his skin. His body shudders as he eats up Mickey’s words like sweet, delicious fucking candy.

“You have no idea what the fuck I wanna do to you,” Ian admits, stroking himself a little faster.

And, _oh—_ Mickey moans, a throaty sound cutting off into a whine, that hits hard in the pit of Ian’s stomach.

“So fuckin’ tell me. Fuck, Ian. _Tell me.”_

_Fuck, holy fuck._

“Want my mouth on every fucking inch of you,” Ian says. “Wanna leave marks all over your body—really like how they look on your skin.”

 _“Shit—yeah_. That a thing for you?” Mickey asks.

He sounds so turned on and so _curious_ at the same fucking time.

“Might be,” Ian says. “With you, I think— _yeah.”_

“Tell me where,” Mickey says, somewhere between demanding and begging. “You can leave marks wherever the fuck you want—just tell me where. _Please.”_

The needy, unhinged tone to Mickey’s voice is going to fucking send Ian over the edge.

“How polite of you,” Ian says, teasing. “Saying _please_.”

It’s really meant to be a joke, until Ian hears Mickey’s breathing become heavier. Until he moans again, and Ian realizes—maybe he kind of fucking likes that.

Ian’s body feels like it’s overheating.

“ _Please,”_ Mickey says again. “Fuckin’ tell me, Ian.”

“Fuck, _okay._ Wanna kiss down your body,” Ian continues. “Suck marks across your chest, down your stomach, into your thighs.”

Yeah, _his fucking thighs._ Ian wants to grab them, dig his fingers into them while he sucks Mickey off. Wants to bite and suck marks into them that remain for days, for only Mickey to see and feel.

“ _Shit,_ yeah. Fuck, Ian—think I’d let you fuckin’ bang me right now, if you were here.”

Oh— _oh._

Ian is going to lose his fucking mind _._

He almost pulls up fucking Google Maps on his phone. How the fuck long would it take to drive to Detroit, anyway?

The answer is too long. Too fucking long.

“Mickey you’re gonna fucking _kill me,”_ Ian says. “Jesus, yeah—I’d fuck you however the fuck you want it.”

Mickey sounds like he’s fucking _panting._

“How do _you_ wanna fuck me, Ian?” he asks.

Wow, what a loaded fucking question that is.

Ian fucks into his fist a little faster, moaning as the pressure slowly begins to build.

“I— _shit_. Whatever fucking feels good to you, Mick. Whatever gets you going.”

“Anything you fuckin’ do is gonna get me going. Fuck, _fuck._ Hold on,” Mickey mumbles.

The speaker makes a harsh noise in Ian’s ear, like Mickey must have dropped the phone onto the bed.

“Are you—what are you doing, Mick?”

Mickey gasps, and Ian would give absolutely fucking anything to be able to see him right now.

After a few more seconds and sounds of shuffling around, Mickey whispers, _“Take a fuckin’ guess.”_

Fuck. Ian thinks he knows.

He slows his hand to a stop, squeezing the base of his cock to stave off the orgasm that’s threatening to rip through his body. He listens to Mickey’s shaky breathing; to the way he’s starting to punch out these soft, little moans.

God, yeah— _Mickey’s fucking himself._

Ian closes his eyes, lets his head fall back into Mickey’s pillows, and resumes the _up and down_ motion of his fist. He can just make out the slick sound of Mickey’s movements; presumably lube mixed with an obvious _in, out, in, out._

It’s faint beneath the pretty noises falling from Mickey’s lips, that Ian desperately wishes he was there to swallow down through kisses.

Ian’s breathing becomes shaky, and it’s clear that Mickey must notice when he says, “You thinkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ me, Gallagher?”

It sounds like Mickey’s pace quickens, with his moans suddenly coming closer together, and Ian tries to match it in time to the jerk of his wrist.

“God, _yes,”_ Ian manages to say. “Wanna be inside you. Make you fucking moan for me.”

I mean, what the fuck. He might as well be fucking honest, right now.

There’s something about the thought of that; about Mickey moaning desperate, broken sounds into Ian’s mouth, into Ian’s ear, while Ian fucks him until he’s a writhing mess beneath him.

And the fact that they’re doing this right now—fucking phone sex—makes Ian feel like it’s even more inevitable.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout how good you’d feel,” Mickey says. “How hard you’d fuck me. _Fuck,_ Ian. I want you so fuckin’ bad.”

Ian feels like he has absolutely no stamina, as he feels his orgasm building again. He squeezes harder around his cock, rubs his thumb across the tip, and feels it leak out around his fingers.

He pushes his head back further into Mickey’s pillows as his hips jerk forward, and—holy fuck, he’s hit with another whiff of _Mickey,_ and he’s not going to fucking last much longer.

 _“I’m gonna come,”_ Ian says, and he’d be embarrassed by the pathetic whine of his own voice if he wasn’t already so, so far gone. “Fuck, Mickey, please tell me you’re close—”

Mickey’s breathing so fucking harshly, and Ian can tell he’s almost there.

Fuck, Ian thinks it’s becoming one of his favorite things—to make Mickey feel good like this, even from a few hundred miles away. He fucking loves it, loves making Mickey moan and gasp and shake, and hopes Mickey loves it just as much.

_“Yeah, Ian—fuck. Close, so close.”_

With Mickey’s voice in his ears, with the very vivid image of Mickey _fucking himself_ playing on a loop through his brain, Ian can’t hold it back anymore when his body starts to tense up.

His mind goes blank but he feels it everywhere, seeping through his limbs, stomach clenching, cock contracting.

He whispers, _“I’m fucking coming,”_ uselessly feeling the need to announce it, so badly hoping that Mickey is right there with him.

“Me too, _me too,”_ Mickey says, moaning around the words. He breathes out, “Fuck, _Ian,”_ while Ian hears him shuffling around—until he’s almost assuredly lying in the same boneless heap of post-orgasmic bliss as Ian.

And, officially, there isn’t anything hotter to Ian than Mickey moaning his fucking name while he comes. While he’s _fucking himself,_ imagining that he’s getting fucked by Ian.

The irony, of course, falling somewhere within the fact that Ian is _every bit as fucked_ as he feels right now. Figuratively speaking.

In every single possible way that one could be figuratively fucked. In fact—Ian has never been _so_ figuratively fucked in his entire life.

And, no, he’s not being dramatic.

Because on the most colossal scale that a good figurative fuck could possibly offer, Ian has hit it hard, surpassed it, and now he’s circling back around like a motherfucking boomerang.

Slippery slope, can of worms, and all that shit.

He knows. He fucking knows.

But he doesn’t _care._

Because he likes him.

Holy fuck, he likes him so fucking much.

And he’s _okay with it._

He likes him more every single day, and now, when Ian isn’t making out with him or rubbing them the fuck off together, he’s apparently having phone sex with him, too.

And the worst part? _It’s not even about sex._

If it _was_ about sex, Ian would go right back to what he was doing before—sex with strangers, hooking, and all of that other meaningless shit that he has never wanted less in entire life, than he does right now.

Because this isn’t about sex.

This is about Mickey, and the fact that Ian can’t get enough of him. Every time he gets a tiny taste, it makes him want more.

More of Mickey’s time, more of Mickey’s attention, more of Mickey’s kisses and touches.

More than fake titles and feigned affection.

Just fucking _more._

This is about wishing Mickey was here with him, falling asleep warm and sated, tangled up in each other’s bodies.

This is about wanting to wake up with Mickey in the mornings, to make breakfast with him and maybe sometimes _for_ him, to surprise him and make him smile.

This is about them trusting each other enough to have full blown phone sex, which Ian _really_ can’t imagine doing with anyone else, while Ian gets himself off in _Mickey’s own fucking bed._

It makes Ian want to push their boundaries, and find out what the fuck it is that Mickey actually wants from all of this, if the answer isn’t Ian.

Because Mickey is everything— _absolutely fucking everything_ —that Ian wants.

He wants to take Mickey on real fucking dates and buy Mickey real fucking gifts and shower him in real fucking kisses and real fucking _feelings_ that Ian doesn’t know how to hide, anymore.

Ian wonders what would have happened if he had just asked Mickey out like a normal fucking person, instead of pulling him into a ridiculous lie that has long since run well beyond its course.

But, from a professional standpoint, he _couldn’t._

They’ve dragged this fake relationship bullshit through the mud, repeatedly back and forth, and they just don’t need to do it anymore.

They don’t need to pretend anymore.

So, what the fuck are they still pretending for?

Does Mickey genuinely like their current arrangement? Is he satisfied? Is it possible that it’s actually _enough_ for him, somehow?

What would happen if Ian chose to tell him everything?

Ian isn’t there just yet, though. He’s not ready to bare his soul, at the risk of losing it all.

He’s not ready to risk losing Mickey.

And he’s willing to do just about whatever it takes, to make sure that _doesn’t_ happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	8. Don't let it go to your fuckin' head, Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey makes an unexpected stop on his way home from Detroit. Ian forgets what it's like to sleep alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I'd like to mention how much I appreciate everyone's support (and patience) on this story. I absolutely love writing this fic and I haven't even reached the major plot points that I'm most excited about. We have a long way to go!
> 
> 2) Shameless is obviously back, and it's hitting me with a frustrating combination of inspiration AND distraction. I find it difficult to fully focus on my AU versions of Ian and Mickey when we also actively have new canon content coming in. It doesn't mean I'm not still writing. It just means my focus is split. 
> 
> 3) Chapter 8 was supposed to be over 20k words, but I've decided to split it in half (in favor of posting sooner than later). This is technically part one, and I suppose you can also consider it to be something of an interlude. Part two will end up essentially becoming chapter 9, but I do have a good portion of it already written. I don't expect it to take me too much longer to finish. It will also be longer than this one.
> 
> Meanwhile, although this update is shorter, I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 8

On Monday, Ian spends the entirety of his forty-five minute therapy session lamenting over his woeful misfortune.

For the first time, he divulges every single detail of his and Mickey’s (fake) relationship, giving his therapist an unexpected earful.

Her name is Tina, and she’s a relatively intense woman; somewhere within her mid-thirties with scarlet hair and medium-brown skin. She doesn’t humor or tolerate any of Ian’s bullshit, and that’s precisely why Ian likes her.

At least, most of the time.

Every two weeks, like clockwork, Ian meets with Tina. Besides going off schedule in April and May, he doesn’t think he’s missed a session with her over the last three years.

If there’s ever been a testament of commitment to his mental well-being, that pretty much takes the fucking cake.

They begin every appointment by tracking his moods and assessing his stability, and then Ian has the freedom to discuss whatever happens to be weighing on his mind.

Truthfully, he’s been skating around the subject of Mickey for a while—from the moment he got back on track with his appointments in early June.

There was a hefty fuckload to unpack in that returning session, Ian recalls. When he had last talked to Tina, he was still just a music shop employee without a clue. He had no real direction, and not even a semblance of a plan.

Skip ahead two months, and Ian’s entire world had been rocked into another dimension. He discussed the shock of his inheritance, and the slightly _smaller_ shock of Frank not being his real father. And, of course, he talked about his decision to purchase the building.

He also _sort of_ talked about Mickey, venting about their first encounter with each other at Wicker Park Music Exchange, while building up to the dramatic reveal of Mickey becoming his tenant.

However, things have certainly taken a major turn, since then. And it’s _possible_ that Ian hasn’t been completely honest, as his platonic feelings for Mickey began evolving into something more.

Okay, fine. He really hasn’t been honest at all.

Not about his crush, not about the fake dating, and not about the development of their friends with benefits bullshit.

Because, let’s face it—it’s a recipe for fucking disaster, and Ian already knows that. No need to beat a dead fucking horse.

Up until now, Ian has gone out of his way to avoid Tina’s inevitable scrutiny, purposely filling their sessions with halfhearted discussions focused on the lounge and his family.

He even managed to complain about Ryan, somehow, while conveniently refraining from the Mickey-related details.

The first rule about going to therapy?

_Don’t be a fucking liar._

Lying to a therapist, or withholding important information from a therapist, is sort of like a futile attempt at walking backwards on a treadmill.

It’s just that Ian had himself all but convinced that none of this was worth bringing up. It wasn’t a big deal, and it certainly didn’t warrant any sort of conversation with Tina.

At least, until today.

Because, today, Ian is throwing himself a pity party. He’s moping around rather pitifully, miserable because he’s _not_ in Detroit with Mickey, and he just doesn’t have the resolve to hold back, anymore.

And so, today, Ian tells Tina everything. He tells her absolutely everything, and when he’s finally done; when he’s finally exhausted every nitty gritty detail, Tina just stares at him.

She stares at him, and slowly shakes her head.

Which is not even remotely helpful.

“Aren’t you supposed to give me unbiased advice? You don’t get to just sit there and shake your head in silent judgement,” Ian complains, leaning forward in his chair.

“I am unbiased,” Tina says. “But, Ian Gallagher, you listen to me when I tell you this—you’re behaving foolishly. And what’s worse—you _know_ it, too.”

Ian frowns.

“I’m—no, I’m not,” Ian argues, weakly. “Jesus, listen. I’ve already gotten lectured by Lip about this multiple times. I don’t need more lectures, Tina. Seriously.”

“Fine. No lectures, then,” Tina says, calmly. “ _But,_ why don’t you ask yourself why it took you so long to bring this up? You’ve been sitting on it for weeks.”

Well, that’s an easy one.

Ian answers, “Because I knew you’d tell me something I didn’t want to hear.”

“Okay,” Tina begins. “So, tell me, then. What exactly is it that you _don’t_ want to hear?”

He doesn’t have to spell it out, but this is Tina’s weapon of choice. It’s her go to tactic, when it comes to flipping Ian’s shit back onto him. She always manages to make Ian use actual fucking words, until he’s divulging his thoughts and admitting his feelings.

It’s just never been a strongpoint of his, to actively discuss his emotions. He’s not big on the whole vulnerability thing, and Tina is the only exception.

Mostly because it’s her job, and she doesn’t give him a goddamn choice.

“That I shouldn’t be doing this,” Ian says, deadpan, like he’s reading from a script. “That I should terminate our personal relationship, in favor of keeping things professional.”

She folds her hands on top of her desk, smiles, and says, “Well. Those are your words, Ian. Not mine.”

“My words, yeah,” Ian replies with a click of his tongue. “But, come on. You can’t seriously tell me you’re not thinking that shit. When you call me foolish, that’s exactly _why_ you’re calling me foolish.”

“You have feelings for him,” Tina counters. “You’re not foolish for desiring a personal relationship. You’re foolish for pretending that your very _real_ feelings won’t be impacted by your actions.”

“I’m not pretending,” Ian argues. “They’re already being impacted—and I already _know_ that.”

At best, this therapy session is beginning to feel incredibly counterproductive.

“You’re emotionally manipulating _yourself_ in a very extreme way,” Tina explains. “You must realize that, Ian. Recognizing the potential consequences of your actions is a start—but it doesn’t make this any less detrimental. You’re setting yourself up for failure, while also jeopardizing your business ventures.”

Ian remains silent, but crosses his arms over his chest. He glances around the office, adamantly avoiding Tina’s eyes. Instead, his focus lands on a yellow stapler sitting beside her keyboard.

When Ian remains silent, Tina continues.

“Feelings complicate things, and you can’t hide from them or turn them off. You have to ask yourself, seriously, where your priorities are.”

“I know what my answer _should_ be,” Ian says. “I should say, _‘Rhythm Recall is my top priority,’_ but that’s exactly the issue, isn’t it? We both know it’s not.”

“Because you’re prioritizing him over your business, and your responsibility as his landlord,” Tina says. “Maybe it would work, Ian. Or, maybe it wouldn’t. But you need to decide which road you want to pursue. Being caught in between like this—continuing to drag it out—is a recipe for disaster.”

Ian sighs. He looks back at Tina and says, “Somehow, you’re making this seem even more complicated than it already was.”

“You know it’s not my job to solve your problems,” Tina begins. “But you _do_ need to face this. And—you need to face him. If you aren’t going to end things with him, don’t you at least owe it to yourself to be honest about your feelings? Don't you at least owe it to him?”

Fuck, probably.

Of course he owes it to him. Of course he doesn’t want to actively hide this from him.

“I don’t want to lie to him,” Ian says. “But I’m just—not ready to tell him. Things are good right now. I don’t want to ruin that.”

Ruining things with Mickey remains Ian’s biggest fear. He doesn’t want to fuck things up. He doesn’t want to give Mickey a reason to think differently of him, or risk Mickey calling things off.

Like, it’s all fun and games until your (almost) fuck buddy catches feelings.

Mickey doesn’t need to know.

“Well, Ian. It sounds like you already have your answer. You keep doing what you’re doing, but you move forward _knowing_ that you can’t control the outcome, or the consequences.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right.

But it really doesn’t change anything.

It’s sort of like a slap on the wrist while being told, _“I don’t think you should do this, but since you’re going to do it anyway—just know it might blow up in your face.”_

And, honestly, that was never really a question.

Ian already knows that, and he was never going to change his mind.

He was never going to _willingly_ call things off, or suddenly turn over a new leaf.

In fact, he’s going to continue coasting on the _same_ leaf, until it crumbles apart beneath him.

Ian should count his blessings, probably. He’s lucky that Tina hasn’t fired his ass for noncompliance and intentional ineptitude, at this point.

* * *

If Ian’s feelings were weighing heavy on his mind before Mickey left for Detroit, that’s absolutely nothing compared to when Mickey shows up at his door on Wednesday night.

They talked periodically throughout the day, but nothing too extensive. Mickey and Sandy began making their way back to Chicago by early afternoon, with Mickey pulling the bulk of an easy four-hour drive.

But Ian definitely did _not_ expect Mickey to come over, unannounced, with a smile on his face that makes Ian feel like he’s being punched in the stomach.

His first thought, unfiltered and unwanted, is— _Holy fuck, I missed you._

He drags himself out of the depths of his mind long enough to form a coherent sentence, and asks, “Mick—what are you doing here?”

“Hey, Gallagher,” Mickey says. He gestures into Ian’s apartment and adds, “You gonna invite me in?”

Ian nods, stepping aside to let Mickey through the door.

He half-wonders if he missed something—a text or a phone call, indicating that Mickey planned on stopping by.

“You just get home?” Ian asks, hesitantly.

Mickey shrugs his backpack off his shoulder as he enters, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

Once he’s inside, Ian closes the door behind him.

“We stopped to grab a bite, but yeah. Told Sandy to drop me off here,” Mickey says.

His answer doesn’t offer any further explanation, and Ian hates that he doesn’t know what to say.

They make it as far as Ian’s couch, before Mickey turns to face him. He rubs at the corner of his mouth, and Ian just stares at him.

And then, a bit out of left field, Mickey says, “Listen, man—I think we gotta talk.”

It feels like Ian is trapped beneath a cinderblock, as he wonders what the fuck Mickey is getting at.

It’s the worst kind of fucking whiplash, going from the pure elation of Mickey stopping by for a surprise visit, to the all-consuming dread of Mickey _wanting to talk._

“Okay—” Ian says, then pauses. He hears the hesitation loud and clear within his voice. “About what?”

Mickey takes it upon himself to sit on Ian’s couch. He pats the cushion beside him, as if Ian needs an invitation to sit on his own fucking furniture.

However, he follows Mickey’s lead, sitting down and looking at him, expectantly.

“I guess I just—wanna make sure we’re okay?” Mickey says, punctuating it like a question.

Immediately, Ian is confused. Why wouldn’t they be okay?

They haven’t talked much over the last three days, but Mickey’s been busy with Sandy, getting roped into her plans and keeping her company.

Which was the whole point of him going in the first place, wasn’t it?

Ian never expected Mickey to waste his few days in Detroit by texting him constantly.

But, at the same time, he also never suspected that anything was off between them.

Ian’s face must reflect his confusion, because after a few seconds, Mickey clarifies, “The—uh—phone call.”

Oh, right. _That._

It really never occurred to Ian that they _weren’t_ okay, or even potentially wouldn’t be okay, after their escapade of phone sex.

It sort of happened the way most things have been happening between them, and Ian didn’t think this incident, specifically, was inherently different from the others.

Neither of them brought it up the next morning.

At least, not in so much detail. They flirted a little bit, within the realm of their relatively normal standards. Mickey made a comment about _last night being hot,_ to which Ian obviously agreed.

That was the end of it.

“I think so?” Ian says— _asks_ —and raises his eyebrows. “I thought we were okay. I’m okay. Are you—not okay?”

He trips over his words, as his discomfort begins to make itself known.

Ian hasn’t stopped thinking about it, which isn’t even remotely shocking. But Mickey offered no indication that he had been spending the last few days stewing in his own concern.

“Look, Gallagher. I don’t usually do shit like that,” Mickey explains. He waits a beat, and continues. “More like, I _never_ do shit like that. Fuckin’ phone sex? Never done that shit in my life. I know I was wasted, but I just—hope you didn’t feel like you had to go along with it, or somethin’.”

“I didn’t,” Ian says, quickly. “I wasn’t _expecting_ it, but—I wanted to.”

Of course he wanted to.

Ten points to Ian for honesty.

“Guess it’s easy to second guess it—when you think about the shit we were talkin’ in the heat of the fuckin’ moment,” Mickey says. “If we took it too far, y’know?”

Mickey sounds embarrassed.

Ian can’t think of any form of dirty talk that _isn’t_ embarrassing, once that horny, sex-hungry fog finally leaves your brain. But maybe it was the nature of the phone call; the fact that they were so detailed, describing things back and forth in ways they really never had before.

In a way, it felt more intimate than their previous hookups—and certainly more descriptive.

“Well—” Ian begins, waiting for Mickey to meet his eyes. When he does, Ian says, “Let’s just agree to not hold each other accountable for that ‘heat of the moment’ shit. Deal?”

For example, Mickey saying he would have let Ian bang him that night, if he had been there.

Ian isn’t holding him accountable for that.

Heat of the moment, of course.

“Deal,” Mickey says, with a small smile breaking through his otherwise serious expression. “Just wanted to make sure I didn’t make shit weird—uncomfortable or whatever the fuck.”

Of course not. Absolutely not.

The conversation brings a blush to Ian’s cheeks, despite himself. He feels it as the heat creeps beneath his skin, and he knows it must be obvious.

After a moment, Ian adds, “I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

It comes out defensively, almost, which isn’t intentional. But he _wasn’t_ uncomfortable, and he really needs to make sure Mickey gets that.

It’s just that he doesn’t really know what else to say. It’s awkward, at least a little bit, as silence settles between them. Mickey nods, but otherwise remains quiet.

When Ian says nothing else, Mickey clears his throat and stands up from the couch.

“Should probably go,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Haven’t been home yet and I got a busy day tomorrow, so—”

“Right,” Ian says.

He stands up, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and has every intention of walking Mickey to the door—until he decides that he doesn’t want to.

Just as Mickey turns to walk away, Ian reaches for his shoulder to stop him. Mickey looks startled, and glances back at him curiously.

“Listen—don’t worry about shit like this, okay?” Ian says, doing his best to translate his jumbled thoughts into words. “I’m having fun with you—whatever we’re doing, you know? Don’t feel like you ever pushed anything on me. You didn’t.”

It’s better than nothing, _sort of_ , but it doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of thoughts buzzing around inside Ian’s mind.

Thoughts like—

_I like you. So fucking much._

_I want to keep doing this._

_I missed you. I want you to stay._

_Please, please stay._

_I can drive you home in the morning._

God, he wishes. He fucking wishes.

It’s like Ian is so damn good at convincing himself that everything is peachy fucking keen, until Mickey is standing right there in front of him.

Itching for a distraction—and _mayb_ e grasping at straws to prolong Mickey’s departure—Ian gestures towards the kitchen and says, “Gonna grab a beer. You want one?”

It’s a ridiculous question.

Mickey is clearly about to leave, and here’s Ian, offering him a fucking beer as if Mickey didn’t _just_ announce that he should probably get going.

In an attempt to sound slightly less brainless _,_ Ian adds, “I mean, before you head home?”

Smooth save, as always.

“I could go for a beer,” Mickey says with an airy shrug. “And—thanks. For talkin’ me down from all this shit.”

Ian smiles.

Good call on Ian’s part. Mickey is certainly never one to turn down a beer.

They walk to the refrigerator together, and Ian pulls out two cans of Old Style. He tosses one to Mickey, watching him catch it with ease.

“You gotta think I’m dramatic, huh?” Mickey asks, cracking open the can. He leans back against the counter. “Showin’ up here to make sure things are cool with us. Coulda just texted you.”

“I don’t think you’re dramatic,” Ian says. “You want us to be on the same page. That’s not dramatic.”

They are absolutely _not_ on the same page, but for an entirely different reason.

“Guess not. I think Sandy got into my fuckin’ head about shit,” Mickey says. “She was on my ass about goin’ out with her that night. Kept sayin’ I should put myself out there. Take advantage of being single for a few days, or whatever the fuck.”

Ian stares at Mickey for a good five seconds, with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. His poker face has never been good, and he knows that his expression must appear anything but neutral.

It’s just—first of all, Mickey can _be single_ whenever the fuck he wants to be, because Mickey _is single._

And Ian isn’t stopping him from acting on that.

“You _are_ single,” Ian says, pointedly. “So—why didn’t you go?”

There’s a lot left unsaid, in between the lines of Ian’s question. It’s a question he’s been wanting to ask since Mickey started texting him, back on Sunday night.

“You know I’m not big on hookin’ up,” Mickey says. He shrugs, playing with the metal tab of his beer can. “Plus, I like what we got goin’ on. I know it ain’t—well, ain’t really anything. But we’re friends, and I trust you. Can’t find that at a fuckin’ dive bar in downtown Detroit.”

The weight of Mickey’s words sink in as Ian plays them back in his mind.

 _We’re friends, and I trust you_.

It really is the best way to describe their dynamic—a friendship between two men who let a professional relationship bleed into a personal relationship. Two men who, somewhere along the line, allowed themselves free reign to hookup or do whatever the fuck it is that they’re doing.

Together.

Because they trust each other. Because it’s safe, arguably speaking, as far as hooking up goes.

Sure, it’s becoming _less_ safe for Ian by the second, but that's really not Mickey’s problem.

“I like it, too. It’s—” Ian pauses, searching for the right word.

It’s what? Stupid? Tragic? Treacherous?

He ends up saying, “It’s comfortable.”

_Or something._

Mickey nods, considering Ian for a moment.

Then, he says, “Y’know—meant to ask. How did your appointments go this week?

The abrupt subject change takes Ian by surprise, but the question surprises him even more.

Other than his family, on occasion, nobody in his personal life has ever taken much of an interest in his well-being. It feels like a completely foreign concept, to think that Mickey even cares enough to ask.

“Okay, I guess. Can’t really complain,” Ian says. He takes a quick sip of his drink, briefly debating how much he’s willing to reveal about himself. He swallows down a mouthful of beer, and offers, “Mostly just me bitching to my therapist for forty-five minutes.”

Of course, Ian conveniently omits the fact that his entire therapy session was spent, specifically, grousing about the adversities of his and Mickey’s relationship.

“You get forty-five fuckin’ minutes for that shit?” Mickey asks, raising his eyebrows. “You gotta pay extra for that, or does everyone get to bitch about their lives for a whole fuckin’ hour?”

Ian starts to laugh. Mickey is so fucking candid about it, but Ian knows he means no harm.

Plus, he’s not exactly _wrong._

Mickey must recognize the abrasiveness of his reply, quickly adding, _“Fuck—_ no offense.”

But Ian is absolutely not offended. He’s amused, more than anything else—both immersed in and entertained by Mickey’s company.

“None taken,” Ian says. “But, no. I think it’s a pretty standard amount of time, Mick.”

They’re talking about it like it's anything. Joking about it like it's anything. And Ian really, really fucking likes that.

“Well, do they at least got—” Mickey trails off, snapping his fingers like he’s trying to come up with a specific word. “ _Oh,_ those tier package things? Like—bronze, silver, gold?”

Ian grins, shaking his head through another bout of laughter.

“I don’t think it works like that,” Ian says. “It’s not a fucking tanning membership.”

Mickey snorts. _“Right_. As if your pale fuckin’ ass knows shit about tanning memberships.”

“I clearly know more about tanning memberships than you know about therapy.”

Mickey raises his middle finger as he downs the rest of his beer, glaring at Ian from the corner of his eye.

“But, don’t worry. I’ll be sure to ask my therapist about her tier packages when I see her next,” Ian says. “For you. Specifically.”

He pulls out another beer, sliding it across the counter for Mickey to grab.

It nearly topples over the edge, but Mickey manages to catch it. At the same time, he throws his empty can into the trash.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says. “I’m just sayin’—it seems like a long fuckin’ time to talk about feelings and shit.”

He burps, cracks open the second can, and looks up at Ian with a smile. “How'd your other appointment go? Doctor, right?”

There’s a genuine curiosity to Mickey’s tone, and Ian even detects a slight bit of concern. Mickey isn’t being pushy, though, and Ian has dealt with this long enough to recognize the difference.

Mostly, Ian finds it fucking bizarre that he actually _wants_ to open up to him.

Maybe even more bizarre that Mickey makes him feel like he can.

Ian settles on saying, “Not bad.” And, because he suddenly feels compelled to give Mickey a little bit more, he adds, “Just a check-in about meds I’ve been on for a while, to make sure they’re still working and shit.”

He really doesn’t know what drives him to mention his medication. He typically hates talking about this shit, and he _hates_ the thought of anyone looking at him differently because of it.

But, for some reason, he doesn’t think Mickey will.

“Sounds—boring and important,” Mickey says, pauses, and adds, “You’re okay, though?”

“Definitely boring, definitely important,” Ian agrees, chuckling. “But I’m good, yeah. Been playing this game since my late teens—bipolar.”

Mickey is still looking at him, careful not to interrupt. It seems like he’s silently encouraging Ian to keep talking, if he wants to.

It’s still just so completely foreign to him; this idea that someone other than fucking Tina could actually care enough to listen.

Someone who cares enough to listen without getting fucking paid for it. Someone who cares enough to listen because they _want_ to. Someone who makes Ian feel like he fucking matters.

Someone like Mickey.

“There’s six of us, you know?” Ian continues. “Spun that wheel of genetic misfortune. Our mom was bipolar—Monica. Feels like it was her permanent parting gift, sometimes.”

Humor is just about all Ian has, when it comes to talking about this shit.

“Genetic misfortune,” Mickey repeats. “You win some, you lose some, right? Either get a homicidal father or a bipolar mother, I guess.”

“Don’t forget alcoholism and drug addiction,” Ian adds.

“Right, well. I’ll see your bipolar, drug-addicted alcoholism, and raise you homicidal, drug addicted alcoholism—with abusive tendencies.”

Ian holds up his beer and says, “Cheers to that,” smiling as Mickey nods and clinks their cans together.

They remain silent for a few moments. Mickey sips on his beer as Ian opens another, and he can’t help but wonder—at what point does he just fucking ask Mickey to stay over?

It usually progresses naturally, when they’re hanging out; when they’re drunk or high or have already spent much of the night together.

This isn’t like any of those times, though, and Mickey has already stayed longer than he intended. The polite thing—and arguably, the _right_ thing—would be to offer Mickey a ride home.

“So—busy day tomorrow?” Ian asks, conversationally.

He’s attempting to prompt some form of conversation, trying to gauge Mickey’s intentions.

“Six appointments,” Mickey answers. “Pretty fuckin’ awesome. I should make some real good money. First one comes in around noon.”

Notably, by Ian’s standards, a 12 p.m start time isn’t exactly _early._

And so, he decides to take a chance. Opting for subtlety, hoping that Mickey gets what he’s implying, Ian asks, “You, uh—wanna grab some breakfast with me tomorrow morning? Before you start?”

Mickey sets his beer on the counter, turns his head to the side just slightly, and _smirks._

“What?” Ian asks, aiming for cluelessness.

He knows damn well that Mickey sees right through him, and as Mickey’s smirk grows into a knowing smile, Ian can’t help but smile back.

“Or, maybe we could just—make breakfast here,” Mickey says.

His tone is suggestive, and his expression shifts into a flirty sort of gaze.

There’s no doubt in Ian’s mind that he gets it _._

 _“Jesus—_ just fucking stay over, okay?” Ian says, the words rushing out all at once as he steps into Mickey’s space.

Mickey moves towards him on instinct, raising his arms to latch them around Ian’s neck.

God, Ian wants to kiss him—his mind is fucking _begging_ him to do it—but he manages to hold himself back, as they look into each other’s eyes.

Mickey ghosts his lips over Ian’s, teasing, and asks, “You gonna drive me home in the morning?”

And, because Ian is breaking apart like a fraying thread, he closes the distance between their lips the moment Mickey finishes his sentence.

 _“Yeah,_ I’ll fucking drive you home,” Ian mumbles, kissing Mickey through the words.

Mickey laughs, soft and muffled by Ian’s mouth, as he kisses back. He whispers, “Can’t believe how fuckin’ long it took you to ask me,” with their lips still brushing together.

It’s become a thing for them, Ian has noticed—this coy, teasing act of speaking around kisses. For something so simple, and so seemingly innocent, it sends a very specific sort of chill down Ian’s spine. An eager, craving sort of chill; one that nestles deep within his bones and makes him _want._

Ian can’t come up with a verbal response to Mickey’s statement to save his fucking life—but he has other ways of getting his point across. Like dipping down to kiss along the side of Mickey’s neck, pressing hands into each side of his torso. He’s making his objective as clear as he possibly can, waiting for Mickey’s cues.

Of course, Mickey isn’t shy about showing what he likes. Or what he wants. He’s so fucking responsive, reacting with quiet gasps and nails digging gently into Ian’s neck.

It’s obvious that he fucking loves it; being kissed like this, with Ian mouthing softly across skin. He tilts his head to the side, offers Ian more access as he mutters a breathless, _“Oh, okay.”_

Ian feels his world shifting. Like the ground is being pulled out from beneath his feet while he struggles to keep his balance. It feels so fucking good, and he’s _excited,_ and he wants to make it feel just as fucking good for Mickey, too.

And he’s onto something, clearly, as they abandon their half-full beer cans in the kitchen, in favor of awkwardly pushing each other in the direction of Ian’s bed.

Somehow, his tiny ice box of a studio apartment has never fucking felt larger.

“You come here tonight planning this shit?” Ian asks, adrenaline pumping through his veins as Mickey grabs for the hem of his shirt to pull him forward.

They’re so fucking clumsy—kissing and brushing against each other, pulling and pushing their way through Ian’s apartment until they’re falling onto his bed. Mickey lands on top of Ian with a grunt, laughing as Ian struggles to wrestle him onto his back. Mickey manages to keep the upper hand, though, with Ian's body trapped beneath him.

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,” Mickey says, grabbing for Ian’s hands to pin them down against the mattress.

He leans down to drag his tongue over Ian’s lips, slowly, pulling back as soon as Ian tries to kiss him properly.

Ian groans, fucking pathetically, when Mickey denies his kiss.

He pouts his bottom lip, and says, “Think you do, Mick.”

He squeezes back around both of Mickey’s hands, noticing an evident break in Mickey’s determined expression. It’s like a crack in his code; a tell of Mickey’s desires.

Proof, maybe, that Mickey’s resolve can be broken.

Ian wonders how he looks, from Mickey’s perspective. He wonders if Mickey can feel the sparks flying between them. He wonders if Mickey can feel the butterflies in his belly, with their wings beating at lightning speed. He wonders if Mickey can feel what Ian feels, even just a little bit.

Because, fuck—he’s turning Ian on, making Ian want more. More of Mickey on top of him. More of Mickey’s body. Just fucking _more_.

And then, Mickey finally leans down to kiss him properly—just one kiss, before pulling back to hover over Ian’s mouth.

“You know this whole _friends with benefits_ shit we got goin’?” he asks.

He presses another kiss to Ian’s lips.

Ian nods, craning his neck to lean up for another kiss. He says, “I’m familiar.”

Then, another kiss.

“Well,” Mickey pauses, kisses him, continues. “Wanna just fuckin’ do this for a while.”

 _Another_ kiss. Deeper. Longer.

“Take advantage of a benefit privilege—”

Kiss.

“Which is—what?” Ian asks. “Making out with me?”

Kiss.

“Mm, yeah.”

Kiss.

“Can’t let those benefits go to waste, Gallagher.”

Of course not. Ian wouldn’t dream of it.

“Right. If we’re not utilizing our benefit privileges—” Ian begins, gasps as Mickey’s tongue swipes back across his bottom lip, and says, “—then, we’re just _regular_ friends. With no benefits.”

Kiss.

“Regular friends with no benefits?” Mickey repeats.

_Kiss. Kiss. Kiss._

“Sounds fuckin’ boring.”

Ian doesn’t respond this time, in favor of kissing Mickey harder. Mickey responds eagerly, tongue slipping between Ian’s lips. It’s a measured combination of heat and delicacy, as Mickey keeps a slow, steadied pace.

And, sure. If Mickey wants to spend the whole fucking night making out, Ian will gladly oblige.

He’s becoming partial to these slow-burning kisses; the ones that seem to last forever, filling the pit of his stomach with a deep, aching desire.

Mickey kisses with his entire body, hands gently brushing between Ian’s waist and arms and face, sending tiny shockwaves rippling across his skin.

He kisses with a slow rock of his hips, providing just enough friction to keep a pleasant rhythm, as their legs become intertwined.

Fuck, Ian loves this. Really, _really_ loves this.

The weight of Mickey’s body feels good, settled comfortably on top of him. He’d be happy enough to stay like this all fucking night; lost in Mickey’s lips, focused on his touch.

And, fuck, Ian has so much access to Mickey’s body, with Mickey above him. He can slip his hands beneath Mickey’s shirt; touch every inch of Mickey’s back, and dig eager fingers into his skin.

He’s tracing. Exploring. Memorizing.

Mickey pulls Ian’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down with a gentle pressure that sends a chill trickling down Ian’s spine.

He breathes a soft, _“Oh,”_ when Mickey lets go, and everything feels a little bit too heavy; like the physical act of holding back from him is nearly fucking unbearable.

Their eyes meet, and Ian wonders if his smile is giving him away. In fact, he wonders how fucking long he’s been smiling for, period.

Through slow kisses, gentle touches, and teasing lip bites—Ian thinks he’s been smiling for a while.

“Gotta admit, you make it easy to like this kissing shit,” Mickey says, voice low. “Never thought I’d be the type.”

Ian’s belly pools with warmth, twisting with a surge of desire. He runs both of his hands down Mickey’s back, lower until he’s grabbing onto his ass, through the soft cotton of his sweats.

He mumbles, _“Good,”_ into Mickey’s mouth, and teases, “You can admit it—that you think I’m irresistible. Won’t hold it against you.”

Mickey pushes back into Ian’s hands, licks his lips as he stares down at him.

“Fuckin’ cocky— _fuckin’ handsy,”_ he grumbles.

 _Oh,_ but he sounds so, so fucking turned on.

“It’s just kind of there,” Ian jokes, squeezing a cheek in each hand.

But Mickey likes it so much. God, so fucking much.

Enough to rock back into Ian’s hands.

Enough to close his eyes and let his lips fall open against Ian’s mouth.

Ian can feel the smile on his face.

“You like that?” Ian asks, trying to pull Mickey’s focus back.

Mickey’s eyes open slowly, and he nods as he and Ian look at each other. “Don’t let it go to your fuckin’ head, Gallagher—you got nice hands.”

Ian hums, smirks, and says, “Well, you got a nice ass.”

“Fuck off.”

He wants to sound annoyed, Ian thinks, but his smile says otherwise. He dips down to kiss Ian’s neck, licks and bites at his skin.

Ian could lose himself, like this. Lost in the feeling of hot, wet lips. Lost in the gentle swipe of tongue and teeth.

Mickey is driving him fucking _crazy,_ and Ian wonders if he knows.

It must be pretty damn obvious, as Mickey deliberately sucks a mark into the side of Ian’s neck. A mark that Ian will stare at in the mirror for days to come. A mark that will make Ian crave more, and more, _and more._

Ian likes to make sure Mickey is comfortable. He likes to let him decide what he wants, or what he doesn’t. Right now, he seems particularly into this.

But, if he’s being honest—it’s getting him a little too fucking wound up.

Which is undoubtedly Mickey’s intention.

He’s got one hand beneath Ian’s shirt, as he skims across the band of Ian’s sweats with the other.

“Mick— _fuck,_ don’t tease,” Ian says on a shaky exhale.

He tilts his head to the side, gasping when Mickey bites down a little bit harder, dragging his teeth down Ian’s neck.

Ian moans. Fuck, he can’t fucking help it.

There’s a desperate fucking ache in his balls that’s becoming increasingly unbearable, and Mickey is doing fucking nothing to temper his arousal. His fingertips scratch lightly through the trail of fuzzy, red hair peeking out above Ian’s sweats, and Mickey knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing.

“Why not—hm?” Mickey asks, moving to hover near Ian’s ear. He whispers, “You like it. I know you fuckin’ like it.”

Fuck, _of course_ he fucking likes it. But he’s trying to keep his fucking composure, here.

Mickey wanting to make out for a while is one thing, but Mickey purposely riling Ian up like this is another fucking thing, entirely.

“Trying to be good,” Ian says. He moves his hands up and down Mickey’s body, sliding back and forth between his ass and lower back. “Can’t be good if you’re being a fucking tease.”

Mickey brings a hand up to the side of Ian’s face, then, tilting his head back towards him until they’re looking at each other again. Mickey leans down, ghosts over Ian’s lips, and says, “Then _don’t._ Never asked for this wholesome bullshit.”

There’s a pause between them, as Mickey pulls back just enough for their eyes to lock back together. After a few seconds, Ian realizes that Mickey is waiting for him to make the next move, with anticipation and a heated gaze.

Ian is tired—so fucking tired—of holding himself back. And, for fuck’s sake, it doesn’t seem like Mickey wants him to.

It’s just another night of waning will power, as Ian throws himself headfirst down a bottomless pit of Mickey fucking Milkovich.

And so, down the bottomless pit he goes, grabbing Mickey by each side of his waist. He closes the gap between their lips again. He kisses him a little harder, a little rougher, with just a touch more tongue.

He sets the pace, and he sets the pressure.

There’s something thrilling about it, so fucking thrilling, as Mickey lets a noise spill into Ian’s mouth, letting the weight sink completely down against Ian’s body. He tugs loosely at Ian’s shirt, and Ian makes a decision in that moment—using his grip around Mickey’s waist to roll him onto his side, keeping his arms wrapped around him.

Mickey manages to shove Ian’s shirt up beneath his armpits, groaning in frustration, like he’s annoyed that Ian hasn’t already taken it off.

“Dramatic,” Ian mumbles, releasing his grip long enough to pull his shirt up over his head.

He removes Mickey’s shirt, too, throwing it fucking somewhere, right as Mickey hikes a leg up around Ian’s hip.

And, fuck, this is so hot—but Ian wants to be on top, and he kind of thinks Mickey wants that, too.

He pushes his body forward until Mickey gets the hint, rolling completely onto his back as Ian settles above him. He continues to kiss him— _never wants to stop kissing him_ —as he sucks Mickey’s bottom lip into his mouth.

They build an easy rhythm, from there, frantic with roaming hands. Ian moans soft, punched out sounds into Mickey’s mouth, once he’s too fucking turned on to keep quiet.

And far too fucking turned on to care.

He’s hard, so fucking hard, and Mickey is, too. Mickey responds to Ian’s sounds with quiet, needy noises of his own; the kind that go right to Ian’s cock, making him want more. Just fucking _more._

Being with Mickey like this feels like relief. Like release. Like a little slice of mitigation for the constant cyclone of desire and feelings brewing beneath Ian’s very conflicted surface.

But that’s the thing about them, when they’re together like this. None of that fucking matters, in these moments. The moments hidden from the world, meant for just the two of them.

They never really mean for it to happen—it just fucking does, and it’s impossible to resist.

And it’s impossible to stop.

“Fuck, hey—” Mickey says, breaking their kiss. He dips his hand beneath Ian’s waistband, _goddamn finally,_ brushing Ian’s cock with his hand. “Told ya the other night—wanna blow you.”

Ian freezes, lips parted as he breathes heavily, looking down at him.

Mickey appears nervous, almost, but determined at the same time, as he waits for Ian to respond.

And it’s not like Ian forgot, fucking obviously, but it’s just one of those things; like it doesn’t feel like a viable possibility until it’s actually being thrown onto the table as an option. A _right fucking now_ option, laid out directly in front of them.

Of course, while Ian is wasting too much time thinking, Mickey wraps his hand around his cock, thumbing across the head, in an incredibly intemperate way of getting Ian’s attention.

He thrusts into Mickey’s hand, gasping as Mickey drags his tongue down Ian’s neck—and, fucking fine, maybe Mickey has him beat when it comes to the art of teasing.

Unfair advantage, though, with Mickey’s hand wrapped around his fucking dick.

“Gonna let me?” Mickey asks, moving back up to mouth at Ian’s ear. “Think you wanted it, when we talked about it on the phone. _My lips around your cock.”_

“I— _fuck,_ yeah,” Ian says, struggling to form a coherent sentence. “Whatever you want, Mick.”

He really, really fucking means it. Ian will do whatever the fuck Mickey wants, right now.

And, if Mickey wants to fucking blow Ian, it’s not like Ian is going to decline. Ever.

“Good,” Mickey says, chuckling. “‘Cause I wanna fuckin’ try this shit.”

He releases his grip on Ian’s cock, and taps at Ian’s hip, signaling for him to switch positions.

His eagerness is funny—fucking cute, almost—because he’s talking about sucking Ian off the same way someone talks about trying out a new car.

And, without a doubt, he’s _excited._

“Why do I feel like I'm being taken for a test drive?” Ian asks, lying back down on the mattress.

He props his head up with a pillow, just slightly, watching Mickey sit back on his knees.

Mickey tongues at the corner of his mouth, eyes locked on Ian’s as he moves back further, until he’s straddling Ian’s calves. He pulls down Ian’s sweats, hooking his thumbs around his boxers to wiggle them together down his hips.

He feels an immediate surge of _relief_ once his cock is free, and it’s incredibly fucking distracting as he struggles to retain some degree of composure. It’s resting hard against his stomach, taking every ounce of Ian’s self control to not wrap a hand around himself.

“The fuck are we test driving?” Mickey asks. “How fuckin’ fast my mouth gets you off?”

Ian snorts, scrunching up his face. He’s aiming for annoyance, but he thinks his feigned irritation probably falls flat, considering his current position.

He feels unusually exposed, like this. He and Mickey don’t typically end up _completely_ naked, especially while sober. He exhales through his nose, attempting to relax.

Then, trying to keep the mood light, he says, “You gonna put your money where your fucking mouth is, or what?”

Mickey raises an eyebrow, clearly taking it as a challenge. He leans down to press a soft kiss to Ian’s hip, reaching out to move his fist slowly up and down the length of Ian’s cock.

He licks his lips, and whispers, “Put my mouth— _where_ , exactly?”

Fuck. Ian almost fucking hates how _collected_ Mickey is about this. He’s so fucking smug, like he knows how good he’s going to make it. He’s never fucking done this in his life, and yet he’s so goddamn sure of himself.

_And that’s so fucking hot._

Ian’s legs fall further apart as he watches Mickey’s every move. He’s resigned to the knowledge that he’s likely going to come at record fucking speed, because this is _Mickey_ and Mickey’s fucking mouth and Ian has never been this keyed up by the idea of a blowjob in his entire motherfucking life.

And, holy fuck, as Mickey drags his tongue over Ian’s cock, he’s also never been more fucking right about anything. The sensation tenses his entire body, stomach clenching and head falling back onto his pillows.

Mickey laughs— _fucking laughs_ —just this low, sexy sort of chuckle that Ian wants so badly to be annoyed by. But he can’t. He maybe can’t be annoyed about anything, ever again. Because Mickey is closing his fucking lips around him without further warning, inching his mouth further down like he’s testing his limits. Which, Ian thinks, really makes no fucking difference, because he’d probably come from a puff of fucking air, at this point.

But, to Mickey’s credit, he’s nothing if not persistent. It’s sloppy, in a way that just makes it fucking better, somehow. Better, because his mouth is wet and hot, and he’s switching between suctioned lips and swipes of tongue. And he barely needs to fucking do anything, because Ian is already so, so close to coming.

So, Ian lets it build; tips his head further back, moaning as he grabs pitifully for the blanket. Because he just needs to grab _something_.

And he knows he’s losing control, as his body races towards an orgasm that he’s been dreaming about for _fucking weeks._

There’s pressure on his hips, suddenly—Mickey’s hands pushing him down, keeping him steady, probably so Mickey can do his fucking thing without Ian fucking into his mouth. Which—did he? God, he didn’t fucking mean to.

Mickey’s grip around his hips tightens, and, fuck, Ian gets hit with an overwhelming urge to look at him.

He pushes up on his elbows, forcing his eyes open, focusing on the way Mickey moves. Watching the _up, down_ of his head—enamored by the way it matches so perfectly with the _suck, lick_ of his mouth and tongue.

Jesus Christ. He can’t help it when his eyes slip shut again, gasping as Mickey’s name rolls off his tongue like a plea. One, two, three times.

He releases his grip on the blanket and grabs for Mickey’s hair, just long enough to clench a fist through the short strands. He’s not expecting Mickey to fucking _moan_ around his cock, vibrating around him, making his hips jolt forward despite Mickey’s efforts to keep him still.

And Mickey moans _again,_ apparently pleased with Ian’s response, but it hurls him that much closer; pulls a louder, unrestrained sound from Ian’s throat.

He’s completely fucking derailed by pleasure, and— _fuck—_ he can feel himself leaking into Mickey’s mouth. It fucks him up, thinking about his own taste on Mickey’s tongue. And it fucks him up _more_ when Mickey flattens his tongue along the tip of his cock, deliberately, firing up his nerves, burning hot until he can’t fucking take it anymore.

_“Fuck, Mickey—”_

Oh, my fucking God. He’s fucking done for.

 _“Holy fuck._ Gonna come.”

He tries to use his grip on Mickey’s hair to push him off, but Mickey digs nails into his hips; keeps his tongue right there, right fucking there, as Ian’s muscles contract. Mickey pulls back just slightly, relaxes his mouth, and very resolutely gives Ian an open invitation.

And then, he fucking comes.

Really, really fucking comes.

God, and Mickey just fucking lets him.

All over his tongue, into his mouth, with a little bit dribbling down his lips, _Mickey just fucking lets him._

Maybe Ian dies, after that.

Like, he’s pretty sure he’s fucking dead.

He genuinely thinks he might be, as he sinks down into the bed, body trembling with light waves of aftershock. His fingers are still tangled in Mickey’s hair, and he gently releases his grip the moment he realizes.

And he’s definitely not expecting it when Mickey instantly climbs up his body, petting a hand back through his hair and making him blink open his heavy eyes.

“Hi,” Mickey says, calmly.

Because, sure, now seems like the time for a casual conversation. He’s grinning; a little bit proud, a little bit devilish, as he makes an intentional show of licking his lips.

Ian swallows, blows out a shaky breath, and says, _“Jesus.”_

It’s the only fucking way to effectively communicate what he’s feeling, right now.

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, raising an eyebrow. He leans down for an open-mouthed kiss, and his familiar flavor of beer and cigarettes is mixed with a very distinct taste of come.

And—it’s hot. Fucking gross, but _fucking hot._

Ian hums, smiling against Mickey’s lips. He pulls back just enough to whisper, “You’ve got quite a mouth on you, Mickey Milkovich.”

Kiss.

“Think so?”

_Kiss._

“Know so.”

God, Ian feels so fucking unhinged. There’s a voice in his head screaming some bullshit about how fucking _good_ they are together.

And then Mickey pushes his hips down against him, and Ian realizes how fucking hard he is. Hard from kisses and touches and hard from _sucking Ian off_.

“Turned you on, huh?” Ian asks, pushing Mickey onto his side. He licks beneath Mickey’s ear, teasing. “Who knew having my dick in your mouth would make you this fuckin’ hard?”

Mickey bites his bottom lip through a smile. He touches the side of Ian’s torso, maybe to get his attention.

Or maybe just because he fucking feels like it.

“Gonna keep talkin’ shit, or you wanna make that mouth useful?”

Wow. What a good question.

Of course, Ian is a gentleman, and he wouldn’t fucking dream of letting the night pass by without very adamantly returning the favor.

Twice.

* * *

Over the next few weeks of his life, it becomes glaringly apparent to Ian that there is an extremely delicate balance between sex and feelings. It occurs to him in a pretty spectacular way, that he’s really never experienced both at the same time.

And, no, they’re not literally fucking, per se.

As in, Ian’s dick has not been in Mickey’s ass.

But they are fucking _around_. A lot.

Like, every night since Mickey showed up at his door after coming back from Detroit.

That delicate balance of sex and feelings— _intimacy—_ has remained an untouched concept for the entirety of Ian’s life. Because while there is a razor sharp distinction between sex and _intimate sex,_ the line between sex and feelings seems to be incredibly unfamiliar.

And incredibly blurry.

Ian can’t recall a single sexual encounter from his past that toed that line, even almost. And yet, with Mickey, it seems to be all he’s fucking doing.

He struggles to remember what it was like to have sex that meant nothing. He can’t remember what it was like to bring home strangers, or to fuck around without any form of attachment.

Because, with Mickey, everything feels like something. Everything between them feels intimate.

Intimate. Flirty. Comfortable. _Fun._

Fuck, they’re having so much fun.

Pleasant, easy fun. Exciting, electric fun.

The kind of fun that leaves Ian in a fit of laughter, when Mickey accidentally tickles the side of his body—and then does it again, accidentally on purpose.

The kind of fun that leaves Mickey breathless, as Ian kisses pathways down his skin, head to toe, winding him up just to make him unravel again.

The kind of fun that makes Ian feel like Mickey is his best friend. Because it feels like he is. It feels like Mickey is Ian’s best fucking friend, and he wants to spend all of his fucking free time with him.

He wants to make Mickey breakfast in the mornings, and get him off before he leaves for his first appointment of the day. He wants to wake him up with neck kisses and soft touches. He wants to make out on Mickey’s balcony between sips of beer or coffee, or hazy puffs of a shared joint.

For the most part, that’s exactly how their evenings and mornings seem to play out.

Their nights are often filled with food, alcohol, or weed—nothing unusual for them, really. But sometimes they’re filled with nothing but each other. And, God, they’re so fucking typical, always making sex jokes and teasing comments until one of them gives in first.

Ian taunts Mickey about _practicing_ his blowjobs, and Mickey shuts Ian up by reminding him that he’s a _natural born cock sucker._

His words, not Ian’s. Although, he’s not wrong.

Meanwhile, Mickey tells Ian to dust off his rusty blowjob skills, and Ian shuts Mickey up by reminding him that he can deepthroat like a fucking champ, until Mickey sees fucking stars.

But there’s a nagging voice in Ian’s mind, always, no matter how hard he tries to turn it off. It’s playing a constant loop of _damn—we’re fucking good together._

And, why fucking deny it?

They _are_ fucking good together, in ways that Ian didn’t know they could be.

So, yeah. Maybe Ian doesn’t know what the fuck he’s feeling, anymore. Maybe his desires are weaved so intricately around his feelings that his judgement is clouded _just_ enough to stop overthinking every goddamn breath he takes.

Because he’s done that. He’s done it, and he’s done it again. And he’s fucking sick of it. He just wants to enjoy this. He just wants to have fun. He wants to stop going in circles with himself. No more fucking arguing back and forth between his rational brain and his boyfriend brain.

Just fucking let it happen.

Whatever it is, just let it fucking happen.

And it’s easier, somehow. It feels easier, because instead of focusing on the aching _want_ within his chest, he can finally just fucking act on it. Without hesitation. Without feeling like he shouldn’t.

He can pull Mickey into his lap in the middle of movie nights, and kiss him in the middle of the kitchen. He can pin Mickey down onto his couch when they’re fighting over the remote, gripping around his wrists as he dips down to kiss Mickey’s neck. He can walk up behind Mickey in the bathroom and wrap his arms around the middle of his body. He can slip his hand into Mickey’s boxers; can touch him until he’s turned on enough to shove Ian back against the wall.

He doesn’t know when exactly they went from apprehensive hookups to whatever the fuck they’re doing now. It’s not like it was ever awkward or uncomfortable, because it really wasn’t.

But it wasn’t quite like this.

They weren’t spending every night together, and they weren’t _planning_ on spending every night together. It’s only been a few fucking weeks, but Ian fucking loves it.

He wants to keep doing it.

Nothing really changes from a public perspective, Ian doesn’t think. Except the fact that it’s _easier._

Because it really doesn’t feel like they’re faking anything, anymore. Except the title, Ian supposes.

And—on Mickey’s part—maybe the legitimate feelings. The ones that typically come with the territory of being in a relationship.

The romantic feelings. Or, whatever the fuck feelings you’re supposed to have when you’re genuinely dating someone.

Like the feelings that Ian has been so carefully harboring.

Regardless, Ian makes a point of not discussing any of this shit with Lip, and Lip hasn’t asked him.

Since the bowling alley incident, Lip has firmly avoided the topic, and Ian really fucking appreciates that.

And, if Sandy ever talks to Mickey about it, Mickey certainly isn’t rushing to tell Ian.

Which is really okay. Ian doesn’t think he’d want to hear Mickey’s perspective, and he prefers not to think about it.

It doesn’t matter, though. Not really.

It’s no secret that Mickey enjoys Ian’s company. He’s made that clear, and he doesn’t need to spell it out. In the same way that Ian doesn’t, either. It’s a no fucking brainer, at this point.

It is what it is. All of it.

Ian likes the mild sort of domesticity that they’ve fallen into. He likes that they spend nights and mornings together. He likes that they go on lunch dates in between Mickey’s afternoon appointments. He likes that Mickey meets him at the lounge with a smile and a casual kiss on his lips.

And he _especially_ likes the self-indulgent pride that washes over him whenever he thinks about the fact that, just eight weeks ago, he came up with the ludicrous fake boyfriend lie that chased Mickey’s ex-whatever away with his tail between his fucking legs.

The lie that, ultimately, has taken them from fake boyfriends to fake boyfriends with a very _real lover_ sort of twist. Because, sure. They can call it friends with benefits. They can call it anything or nothing at all, but they’re still waking up in each other’s beds every single fucking day.

Ian has never found himself in a more convoluted situation in his entire life.

It feels fucking chaotic, and he loves it.

He wouldn't want to be in this fucked up situation with anybody else, and he loves it.

Mickey is his best fucking friend, _and maybe something more,_ and he loves it.

He loves it. _He fucking loves it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 summary teaser:  
> Ian falls like rain on a stormy night, with fresh ink carved beneath his skin.
> 
> \--
> 
> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


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